Lucky
by MrsRJLupin
Summary: "Lucky" Tom Wright has been saved from poverty by joining the army and has become a pretty good sharpshooter. He is passed to the 60th Rifles under the command of Captain William Frederickson and into the company of Major Sharpe. A FF in honour of Bernard Cornwell's hero, based on the TV films. Audio from my Youtube Playlist: MrsRJ Lupin (a space between the MrsRJ and Lupin)
1. The 52nd

1.  
The 52nd Oxfordshire foot regiment had barely landed at Oporto when the battle began. General Sir John Colborne had armed the men while still at sea and they had stormed right out onto the white, soft sand and straight into defeat. That had been nearly six years ago, six bloody, hellish years which, against the odds Thomas Wright of Oxfordshire had survived.

Tom had been a child when a shilling was pressed into his hand in an inn near Banbury, had seen them all: Corunna, Zaragoza, both battles of Porto and at Grijo, where he had a shoulder wound from the French in retreat. Kkk(n, who had told Frederickson that the 60th were a "damn disgrace" after Sharpe's men, the King's Own, had tried to tell us a lesson or two.

The large seargant, Harper, as Tom came to know him as, told them what made a good rifleman was the ability to fire three rounds a minute in any weather, so when the Major asked him that exact question as he scrutinised them critically, Tom answered with his sergeant's words.

"You don't give a damn, do you, Frederickson?" Sharpe concluded critically, but the Captain replied, "No, sir. I just do my duty, sir." On the major's face Tom thought he noticed a hint of respect. That was good. His father always said that officers who worked with one another kept their men well, rather than wrung out and desperate. It was how rebellions began, how insurrections began. Wellington was clearly superb at choosing his leaders. And his father knew about rebellions.

"The King's Own", operated, some said, above the orders of Wellington, but Tom suspected that the General knew exactly what Sharpe did and that he turned a blind eye to it. For they had succeeded in clearing the way so many times for the regiments, under their commission-bought commanders, so that any mistakes by them would have been more than made up for by Sharpe to begin with.

And that was the way of the world, Tom knew: if you were incompetent but rich you could, by and large, get away with almost anything. His father had. Which is why Tom had changed his name after he and his mother had become destitute, his money and assets, as a wanted traitor, taken by the crown.

Tom found he couldn't hate his father, , as anyone who heard his name did. Had his mother been able to keep his money, no doubt he, Tom, would be reviled too. As he had been once a Lieutenant Colonel, his father had taught him the sword and musket.

And the recruiting party had passed through Banbury a week after his mother had died, by which time he was down to his last farthing and the landlady, kindly as she was, had no work for a thirteen-year-old. There was only one line of work that Thomas Wright could go into, and he had been saved from it.

They were to take the fort at Huesca to destroy Major Lebel, and with him, a large proportion of General Calvert's best. It was a disaster for the French in the Peninsular, and would undoubtedly remove Joseph Bonaparte from the Spanish throne.

They camped by a brook five miles from Saragossa. The attack would probably come at dawn the day after next, in order to maximise efficiency in destroying the enemy. Tom had been grateful for the brook - his arms and legs ached from their long march back from Sorauen.

And, as he stripped to his underbreeches and shirt, washing out his green uniform with soap cake and taking it to be boiled in the copper - private uniforms were always last in - he chanced upon a face he knew. One from childhood. The man who had once been a young boy, younger than Tom was now, but his features had not changed. Matthew Harris had been the family's stablehand. Matthew Harris, who was now in the 95th rifles.

The former stablehand was now challenging the riflemen in the 60th in their marksmanship, as the men sat around lazily in their whites. James Jones had matched Harris shot for shot; Devlin O'Neill had bettered both Harris and Perkins. I was being beckoned over to compete.

"Lucky, here will outgun you all!" proclaimed Frederickson, sitting as he was next to Sharpe, ankles folded. The major himself, who was stripping down his rifle looked up.

"Oh, aye?" He said, interested, then looked across to Cooper.

"My rum ration to you, Mr. Cooper, if you outgun Captain Frederickson's littlest one there," he declared, looking at Tom.

"Major Sharpe's rum ration to you, young Wright, if it is indeed you who are the victor!" Tom watched as Major Sharpe turned an indignant head to the Captain, who was unintentionally smiling, and his own mouth turned upwards into a matching grin.

"Aye, aye," Sharpe agreed, looking slowly up to the men, catching Tom's eye, and nodded. "Rum for you, if you do it, eh? But I dare say it'll be Cooper's."

"Why dahwn't yew gahw ferst?" Laughed Rifleman Cooper, his London accent inducing the rest of the 95th with mirth, and they laughed too. However, the 60th knew Tom: it would be a bad day for Lucky to miss. And, if the Major made good on his promise, they knew Lucky Tom would share the rum with them.

The target was an oval on a tree suggesting a branch had recently been lopped. Out of it a branchlet was growing, young and spindly, it would shake if hit, as it had done many yimes that afternoon. It was over hundred yards away and already it was a veteran of the competition between the two rifle regiments.

Shouldering his newly-cleaned Baker rifle Tom stepped up, amid a few claps on the back in premature celebration. He pulled his arm back, a well practised, almost unconscious act, swinging the weapon up onto it. A breeze had caught the branchlet. Tom watched it, trying to gauge the undulation.

A quick check down the nose of the rifle and refocused, cushioning the recoil as the force propelled the bullet onwards. A hit. A cluch of twigs fell as they became detatched from the branchlet. The 60th let out a roar, clapping Tom on the back.

Saying nothing, but giving Tom a long look, Cooper mirrored Tom's action, again detaching some leaves.

"The size of those which fell may be significant in the event of a draw," mused Matt Harris, glancing at both contestants critically.

Another hit by Tom, this time making the branchlet shake, but a miss from Cooper, who growled, annoyed with his own performance. One more round - Cooper would have to have a hit and Tom a miss for there to be a draw. All of the privates' attention was now on the competition, the 60ths certain now that the rum was Tom's.

Tom Wright shouldered his rifle once more, lined up the rifle, checked the breeze. But then lowered it again. They all heard it, the screaming voice, low amd urgent. A Spaniard was tearing into their camp now, trying to make his meaning understood, wild eyed and frantic, going from person to person shouting unintelligably.

Not quite unintelligably. The men watched as he came to the 95th's sergeant. Harper, staring like the rest of them for a minute, caught him by the arm, dragging him in the direction of the 95th's camp, the Spaniard's shouts intensifying. A few minutes later they appeared, with Sergeant Harper's wife just behind them, shouting back to the Spaniard, who now seemed a little calmer.

"Mayhor Sharpe," Ramona gasped, looking between Sharpe and her husband, and then back to the Spaniard. "He say his village has been attacked by British, burned to the ground, he wife and dotter killed."

"You sure?" asked Sharpe to the animated man. "You sure it was British?" Ramona translated, and then said, "Yes, yes. They come with chariots."

"With chariots!" declared Sharpe, in disbelief. "Tell him there is no British regiment who use chariots!"

"He want you to see," Ramona translated, the man persistent that he was heard.

"Chosen Men," declared Major Sharpe, getting up. Get dressed, two minutes, whatever you can find," he added, surveying their clothing.

"Make haste to the ready, 60th rifles, with as much of your uniform as you can, and your weapons!" shouted Frederickson, as Tom and the rest of the company had scrambled to action.

An hour later, with no sign of the attackers, with Ramona and three other Spanish ladies who came to translate, Sharpe and Frederickson stepped towards one another some distance away from the men, heads bent, speech rapid.

"That was no British assault," Snape began. "Whoever murdered these to poor women were not British. Aye, they may have worn British unifoms but they came in like bloody Romans. This is not Wellington's doing. The men who did this are brigands, or deserters. Tell them that."

But there was one man who was caught, still in red uniform hiding as he was under a wagon. It was Major Sharpe who hauled him out and pushed him towards the Spaniard.

"He say he is partisan. Catalunyan." The Spaniard spat at the Catalonian in disgust.

"Where did he get our uniform?" Ramona translated and, at the Catalunyan man's reply, grabbed him angrily by the unuform's collar, raising him off the ground, and them throwing him off his feet.

"They ambushed a British army regiment just north of here. They separated some and murdered them," the Spaniard explained. "Took their uniforms then raid every - Spanish - family - they - came - across," he added, punctuating every last word with a kick to the masquerading soldier.

"What now?" asked Frederickson to Sharpe. "We cannot hand him over to be beaten to death."

"Hang him," replied Sharpe, looking at the man. "It'll be quick. He impersonated a British officer, and participated in murders. Allowing him to live will only encourage more insurrection and we'll have the French back here in no time."

So the Catalunyan was hanged for murder, just after the red jacket was taken from him. Tom watched Major Sharpe hold it and look at it for a time after the man's feet finished dancing. He sat inspecting it, outside his tent back at the camp, as if contemplating something. Then Major Sharpe saw him looking at him.

"You won, Wright" he said, striding around to the side of the horse wagon. "As your captain said, your rum." He handed the bottle to Tom, and then, making to stride over to the rifle wagon, turned and added, "I don't think Cooper would have drawn level even if we hadn't been interrupted."

Tom passed the bottle around the 60th as they sat around their camp fire. To the clearing were the 95th, Rifleman Michael Cooper looking downcast, the other men grouped around looking equally hard done to. He got up, and went over to him.

"You would've equalled me," said Tom, magnanimously. "And, who knows, one more shot might have had you won. Those Spanish interrupted us."

"Ar, right enough," said Daniel Hagman, getting up. "But thou hadst, so tis nothin' te mind.

"Come and join us; your Major seems to have given us quite a large amount."

"You might have won, Wright, or you might have lost," Cooper replied, looking up to Tom Wright, but we are the King's Own, we are Chosen Men."

"Yes," nodded Harris, lowering his book. "Chosen not to be hanged or shot." Cooper shot him a look, and then began to laugh.

"He's right," he laughed. "He's right."

So, as a company, after a few seconds' deliberation, the 95th rifles trod the ground over to the 60th, no longer rivals and were greeted like their own. Ravers moved aside and clapped Cooper on the back as he and Hagman sat down. Jackson passed him over the rum bottle which Cooper readily accepted.

"To the Spanish!" He held the bottle aloft. "May we see her border and France!"

'The Spanish!" was the collective toast, as the combined company cheered and clapped one another on the back. The next day they would be leaving for their long march north, to flush out any straggling French from the hillsides and surrounding countryside and potentially they would push on into France, a sure sign, to them, of victory.

"That was very generous of you." The captain said to Tom as the men settled down for their much-needed rest that night. "You might have kept that for yourself."

"Yes, sir," nodded Tom, trying to keep his face neutral at the sight of his Captain's terrible mangled face. Sweet William, they called him, for his manner was in sharp contrast to his looks.

"But you shared it. That was good. I do not believe your success was mere luck, lad, no matter what the men call you," Frederickson nodded, moonlight reflecting off his reclaimed teeth that his broken jaw betrayed.

"I'm glad that you think so, sir," Tom said. "The competition was not over. By rights, I could not claim it."

"I'm glad to have you in my regiment, Private Wright," and strode off towards the two officers' tents. Tom went to sleep with those words in his mind, golden, precious words from an officer to his soldier. But, of course, once in his mind they were tarnished, corroded by his father's gross treachery, dishonour, disloyalty and murder.

Perhaps it was these conflicting thoughts which awoke Tom in the night. Staring up at the canvas, the breathing of five other men served only to disturb him further. He closed his eyes, and said his evening prayers again but was interrupted as a snortle from Smith, turning over, disturbed his thoughts.

There it was again. The noises. Not the men, inside the tent with him, but footsteps, not the wind in the trees.

An uncomfortable feeling in his stomach made Tom sit up, then get up, moving to the edge of the tent. Voices. Not English. Spanish, yes. French...yes. French voices in the camp.

Tom slipped on his boots at the edge of the tent, then listened again. They were moving, the speakers, through the undergrowth that led to the small copse to where the Spaniard had called them and interrupted the rifle competition.

But Tom did not know any Spanish or French; he did not know what was being said. But, a French voice could not credibly be associated with anything good.

With care not to step on anything which might make a sound, Tom crept in the direction of the speakers. The moonlight did not give away anything. He peered between the trees and took a few steps in the direction of the woods.

A "crack" to the left brought a flurry of words, tangled and indistict. And then the sound of running footsteps. More footsteps came from the right, and then a shout. This time, it was one Tom could understand: the voice was English, and the words shouted were, "Damn Ducot to hell!"

A gunshot came from the right, the bullet ricoched off a tree. Tom ducked as another soared just past his ear.

"I've got him, Sergeant!" shouted a voice. Tom looked upwards to see the 95th's Sergeant Harper striding like a bear through the encampment. A hand caught Tom's shoulder.

"And I've got one here," shouted another voice, loudly by his ear. A voice further to the left proclaimed the same.

Tom struggled against his captor, who turned him round by the shoulder and the moon lit the face of Rifleman Harris.

"Tom Wright!" he hissed, when realisation struck him.

"I heard voices, shouts," Tom hissed back.

"Come with me!" Harris hissed again, and, taking Tom by the arm, marched him back towards the 95th's camp, sounds of the disturbance increasing now as more and more people were roused.

"What did you hear?" asked Matthew Harris, his words sharp and urgent, pulling on his arm. "What happened?"

"There were Spanish, and French too. I couldn't understand them. And then an English voice, which shouted for someone called Ducot go to hell."

"Ducot? They definitely said Ducot?"

"Yes," said Tom, and felt Harris release his hold from his arm.

"Ducot," Harris exhaled the word like it was a noxious fume. "So, Harper was right, there is a traitor." Tom stiffened at the word, but there, in the near darkness and isolation, Harris could not see his face.

But, Tom told himself. You got up because of your discomfort, and chanced upon the voices. This is not your treachery. He steeled himself, pushing away the thoughts.

"But, you're hurt," said Harris, hand on Tom's undershirt. "Let me - "

"No!" Tom shot back, knowing that his discomfort was indeed what he feared. His weakness. Then, in a softer tone, added, "No, just a scratch."

"If you are sure. I was given a long time ago the gift of education, one of those I turned to medicine." Tom hesitated. If he were to tell Matthew Harris that there was no injury, and the reason for it, his link to his father would be discovered all too quickly and the shame would leave him out of the army.

"Not worth bothering about," Tom said, hoping to sound casual as he reached down to where Harris had touched. Yes, it was there. Three days of this to hide as best he could. And he would have to start by cleaning everything he was standing up in.

"Better get what rest you can, then, if we are moving tomorrow," Harris said. He watched Thomas Wright cross the short distance back to the 60th's camp and back to his own tent. Education, he thought, as he made his own way to where the new prisoners were making a din, was sometimes dangerous.  



	2. Attack

2.  
The man they had captured the night before would not talk. Swear, in Catalunyan, yes. But when interrogated by Major Sharpe and Captain Frederickson, there was no response. The only thing they could establish was that Bartholemew Tyler was trying to flee the captivity of unknown soldiers. He was British, despite his response in Catalunyan, and wore the same uniform as the soldier who had been hanged for murder the previous day.

"Getting anywhere with him, Major Sharpe?" asked the captain, looking in the direction of the tree to which a bent-headed prisoner leaned. Sharpe followed his line of sight.

"Closed up tight, like an oyster, more like," replied Sharpe, scornfully. "But he understands, alright. He'll talk, eventually." He lolled back to Frederickson. "Wellington says anything which upsets the native population gives them more reason to turn on us."

"Excuse me, sir." Tom's voice was quiet, but clear, as he interrupted the debate between the two officers.

"What is it?" snapped Sharpe, glaring at him. "Harris?" He looked at his rifleman, who was at Wright's shoulder. Tom glanced at Matt Harris, who he had asked to come with him.

"If you please, sir," Tom began, looking at Major Sharpe, and then at his captain.

"I found Private Wright last night, disturbed by the intruders, sir," broke in Harris. "He heard something that the prisoner said. He told me and I think you should hear them, sir."

"Out with it, then Wright!" snapped Sharpe, brusquely.

"I heard voices, sir," began Tom, willing away the real reason he had risen. "Spanish. French. I heard shots." He looked at Frederickson.

"Go on, Private Wright," he said, encouragingly, "tell the Major. You have nothing to fear." Tom looked at Sharpe again.

"The man you hold, he ran out between the trees. He shouted, "Damn Ducos to hell". That was in English."

"Anything else?" Sharpe asked. Tom noticed that the Major's face was paling and wondered what part of what he had told him had caused this.

"No, sir."

"Dismissed, Private." Sharpe turned to Frederickson when he and Harris had left.

"So..."

"I take it that this Ducos means something to you?"

"Indeed, Frederickson, indeed." He began to stride around the officers' tent. "That man, that Frenchman, Major Ducos, that worm, that spy...arh! He spat his exclamation as he paced back. "I should have known Ducos was behind this!" Then, in a lower tone, spoke clearly, and coldly, "he has no honour, that man. He steals from the Emperor he purports to serve, he pays rebellions for political purposes - he must know we are heading north. But what I don't understand..." He broke off, striding over to the tent, "was how it was he managed to ambush a small group of a regiment without word getting to us. All of Wellington's men are stationed north west of us, we are the closest to Catalunya."

"Deserters, sir?" suggested Frederickson, thoughtfully.

"Aye, mebbe. But not many deserters have identical uniforms. This - " he pulled over from his temporary desk, made of crates and their regiment's second-best flag. "This is regular issue British Army, highest quality Spanish wool broadcloth, dyed with the best cochineal, fixed with that dreaded mixture: argol, alum, tin compound, and orecin."

"Yes." Frederickson knew there was something more.

"If this were true then the deserters were officers, something of that nature we would certainly have heard of by now. No private's uniform is this light; no private's uniform is thus dyed. Rose madder is used, which, as you know, Frederickson, is not the best quality dye. Many a redcoated private, should he be lucky enough to last long would have a uniform that is not red, but pink, rose madder does not take the fixatives well. Plus, in this heat, this sun, it bleaches the cloth. No, these are no private's coats," he concluded, casting it down onto the floor. "They've been given to 'em, these Catalonian rebels. And I reckon I know who."

"Do you wish to compare the coats, sir? For your report? I know that Wright, who spoke to you just now, is in possession of a redcoat issued six years ago when he arrived in Oporto - the men needle him about it sometimes" Sharpe looked with interest to Frederickson.

"Aye. Yes, Frederickson. A comparison would indeed be mighty useful.

One redcoat later, borrowed from a startled Tom Wright, who was alarmed to have been called back so suddenly to the presence of Major Sharpe having not long left it.

"Indeed," nodded William Frederickson, straining in the afternoon sunlight with his only eye. "This is not like that. One can only conclude what purports to be a private coat is actually one designed for an officer."

Sharpe threw both jackets down onto the floor in disgust and awe at the cunning he suspected, and spoke it aloud.

"So, Ducos got hold of some redcoats, knew no difference in the style, bribed men like that, and that poor beggar yesterday to raid the Spanish. The look of it is that rogue British soldiers have been murdering, raping, burning." He shook his head at the deception. "Clever."

"And him?" asked Frederickson. "To be hanged like his fellow?"

"A flogging might help, or it might make him more determined. But..."

Frederickson did not hear the end of the sentence. Sharpe instead handed Wright's jacket back to the captain and stalked away to the mess.

88888888

The pain which had awoken Tom the previous night coursed through his legs and his back. That pain, he thought bitterly, and the intermittent bleeding from it. It had begun, he remembered vividly, after the Battle of Talavera - he had just been out of range from a musket bullet from a French line but had fallen heavily. At Salamanca, he had been drenched in blood, but none of it from a wound gained that day.

Perhaps he should have gone to see a physician - that would have been sensible. But, such a man might be curious and intrusive. One too many questions and Tom could find matters against him and he would be out of a job.

Just get on with it, Tom thought. Wash through anything which can be seen, pack the garments with dried leaves, and wait until it ceased. The were marching north tomorrow, or so said tonight's plan, shared with the 60th by Captain Frederickson and he daren't risk questions.

More carefully than the previous night Tom trod gingerly, feeling the ground before he trod to uncover any twigs or ocergrowth which might crack or snap and might give away his presence to the undoubted watch.

He could see the track that led to the brook picked out in the moonlight and followed it tentatively as he tried not move too quickly. In the water, he knew, the water woukd ease his muscles, considering the day, and both encounters with their comnanding officer.

It was good to strip off his undergarments and lower himself, in the cover of darkness, into the cool relief of the water. A good scrub of his clothes, slip on his clean, outer uniform, pack the legs with the dry leaves that he had collected that morning sureptitiously from behind their tent to prevent any marks on his greens. A dry in the sun in the morning and all would be as it should be. Thomas Wright would be ready to march north with the regiment.

Just about to step out of the water, dress and hurry back to the tent before he was missed, Tom started at the noise in the bishes near the bank. He stopped still in the water, still, and quiet.

Voices, in English, one English but with a French accent. They talked of...the plan...and of gold...

He dashed out of the water now, scrambling with all his might to be clear and away, uniform on and unders in hands, leaves scattered everywhere.

The tent was in sight. He just had to duck under the flapping canvas.

A hand gripped Tom's shoulder and spun him around. Staring into his face was none other than Matthew Harris.

Hustling him to a tree trunk beyond the tent, Harris asked, "What were you doing out of bed a-night? Again?" He glared fiercely at him, all frendliness from his saving him the day before long past.

"Washing," Tom answered, truthfully.

"At night?" He demanded suspiciously, wrenching Tom's clothes from his arms, holding his white unders up to the moonlight." Then, he turned slowly to Tom Wright.

"What is this?" He danded, thrusting the undergarments back towards Tom in their unclean state. "I thought you were uninjured yesterday."

"I was," Tom managed. Harris growned, pulling Tom up by his tunic. But then dropped him again as the back of his breeches brushed his other arm. He put his hand down, then glared at Tom.

"What is this?"

Here it was. His weakness. It was tell Harris and hope he understood, or be accused of being part of the plot that Makor Sharpe had begun to investigate. He should tell Harris about the exchange of money that he had heard. But, would he listen? Currently, Harris was only interested in him.

"It comes sometimes, and goes," Tom admitted, hoping that would be enough." Harris stared at him for a good few minutes before talking to him.

"Come with me," hissed Harris quietly. "Cooper and Perkins are on a mission for Major Sharpe, won't be back til tomorrow."

"I heard voices," pressed Tom, desperately. "French, English...talking about gold..." But Harris ignored him, instead saying, "Let us have some privacy while you help me get to the bottom of this."

But Tom struggled, and tried to break free. It did no good. Underbreeches in one hand, Tom gripped in his other arm, Harris marched him in front of him until they had got to the third tent of the 95th rifles.

"I must tell the Major what I heard!" inststed Tom, trying to push his way past Matthew, but the rifleman was far stronger than he was. Eventually down on the bedroll, looking at the floor. Harris lit the dim lantern, containing just a stub now of candle.

"Listen," he said, in a quieter tone. "This...blood...it's not an injury, is it?"

"Yes," replied Tom, looking back up. "A long ago injury."

"An injury that comes back?" Tom nodded. Matthew Harris smiled, and sat down next to Tom.

"You are not Tom Wright, are you?"

"I am!" retorted Tom, hotly. "I took the King's Shilling - Tom Wright took it - me!"

"But you are not Tom Wright," repeated Harris. "You can't be. It's impossible," he added, then, after a few moments reflection, added, astonishment in his voice, "could it be you don't know...?"

He stood back up and handed the underbreeches back to Tom.

"How long has it been that you have tried to hide being a girl?" he asked, bluntly. Tom opened his mouth to say something, then sagged, looking at the floor.

"I am not a girl!" exclaimed Tom, getting to his feet. "I - " but Harris bent over him, indicating stains, though washed through, a trace still remained.

"My injury," said Tom. "I was at Vitoria when last it happened." He felt sick, telling Matt Harris all of this, and yet, he remembered Matthew as the learned stableboy his father had took a shine to, and hired a tutor for.

"No," said Matthew Harris, pulling her down next to him. "A four weeks ago and we were at Vitoria," he nodded. "This? This is not an injury. Women have this, all women, when they are fertile. Able to bear a child," he added at his confusion. Did your mother not explain?" He pressed the unders back into Tom's hands.

Tom shook his head. "Only that, when she died, for she was often ill, she told me I was not to whore," said Tom. Harris bent closer down to him.

"So, Thomas Wright joined the army," mused Harris, amusement in his eyes.

"You are right. Thomas Wright is not my birth name," Tom continued. "And, you know me, Matthew Harris."

"I'm sorry," said Matt, coldly. "I know you not." But nevertheless, recognition appeared on Harris's face, remebrance, recall of a time long past.

"You know me, or at least you did," Tom continued. "My father educated you, like you were his son. We played together." But Harris had got up from beside Tom and strode across the tent.

"I have never met you before!" decried Matthew Harris, hotly, but his face betrayed him, even in that dull candlelight.

"You did knew Roberta Haycock; you you worked for her father. Her father's friend taught you Greek and Latin, and Homer, and Aristophanes. It was from her father you stole the two guineas and and the roan horse. He cried, Matthew, he truly did." Tom got to his feet amd walked over to the rifleman, tables turned. Now Tom had the advantage.

"But no!" exclaimed Harris, shaking his head as he looked bewltwwn the tent opening and then back to Tom. "Roberta? John Haycock?" His face stiffened, and growled, "the traitor?"

"All of his assets were seized by the government. We would gave been homeless had not a godmother of my own mother offered her work in Oxford. As it was," Tom looked down, feeling a flush creep across his face at his frankness, "she died of consumption, in poverty when I was eleven. I had to make my living, on my back or else a gun in my hand."

"The daughter of John Haycock," said Harris again, still trying to understand and shaking his head, "here, in the army?"

"I am no traitor, Matthew," insisted Tom, shaking his head. "Not me. When I took the King's Shilling I became Thomas Wright. He is who I am. I have no father besides no mother."

Tom sat back down, Matthew Harris striding over to the tent entrance, gazing out into the darkness. He scowled at his unders.

Women get this, then, when they have children? He shook his head at the audacious idea. Perhaps this is what the Papists called Eve's sin. It certainly hurt as if he was dying, like his comrades must have felt, fallen at their battles, dying with crushed limbs and torn flesh. But that he, like all women, were punished to dying pain each month, all for the want of a child. Perhaps if he told God, in his prayers tonight, that he would never desire a child then this agony may cease.

'When I heard what he had done," Matthew said, interrupting Tom's thoughts, "when I heard he betrayed the regiments raised in the colonies, I refused to believe it. Not Sir John, not the man I knew. Never." One more glance out of the tent, then Matthew strode over to her, his face distorted at the discomfort of retelling, then jerked his head away. "But it was true - the evidence, the testimonies, from the men, from the officers - was overwhelming."

"Yes," nodded Tom, towards his knees. "Yes. What Benedict Arnold did for us, John Haycock did for the Independent States," he added, quietly. But why, was the question. Above everything else, Tom would dearly love to know why.

"Yes, I was a thief, I know it," Harris continued. "It's not much different from what your father did." He sighed, still looking away from Tom. "I am in the army because of him, you could say; I was given the choice of the army or hanging."

"I am sorry to hear it," said Tom. "Thank you for helping me, Matt. I cannot begin to thank you." Harris turned slowly, then walked over and sat down by him.

"I do remember you," Matt added, after a thoughtful few minutes. "You would scamper about, climb trees, jump off things. Your father had to get you down from a window-ledge. I remember that; I remember laughing." He smiled at Tom, who smiled back. "Whatever he did, your father turned you into a damned fine soldier; a damned fine rifleman - Cooper knows that well enough."

"And I would have it stay that way," said Tom, firmly.

"You want me to keep this a secret? It won't last for long, Tom."

"It has kept for 6 years; it will do again. I am good at hiding this blood," he added. "Only, there were voices. You are clever to know it."

"Yes," nodded Harris, sitting down next to Tom. "Your father's gift to me was the love of learning, to read, to understand, to learn. I have read so many books, medical included. My favourite is literature."

"And he taught me how to fight. How I loved papa teaching me. Mother never chastened him, or me, nor said that it was unsuitable. I can fight as well as I do now because of him."

"Lucky Tom," mused Matt. "But you won't now, surely? You will go home?" Tom Wright laughed.

"What for? To be a pox-ridden prostitute?"

"You could marry..."

"Matthew," said Tom, carefully. "You can be sure I will never marry. It is my honour to serve under the Captain, but - "

"Sh!" hissed Matt, treading silently over to the tent flap. Then, he exhaled. "Just the change of watch." He strode back over to him, kneeling in front of Tom, holding his shoulders and looking urgently into his face. "You need to report what you have heard to the Major." Then, glancing down at her unders, added, "do you still...bleed?"

Tom hesitated for a moment, thinking about the packing for his underbreeches, in his breast pockets. It would be the work of a moment to make himself secure and began in haste.

"Yes," he said, unfastening his breeches. Harris looked away.

"Then, stay here. I'll keep watch. We go north tomorrow. Take my roll." Harris gestured vaguely over his shoulder towards the roll of blankets which, like all the privates' bedding, was tucked away. "But tomorrow, Tom, you must go to report what you heard to Major Sharpe. That he has gone tonight based on his supicions about the redcoats attacking the Spanish is enough to show he is trying to outdo his enemy.

"Ducos?" asked Tom.

"Ducos," echoed Harris, edging to the tent flap again, huddled up in Cooper's blanket, kept a lookout.  



	3. Treachery

3.  
A strong hand pulled a heavy-sleeping Tom Wright up out of the bedding roll and to his feet. Not yet fully aware of what was going on, sleep still heavy on him, he saw the face of the provost marshal, Taylor, as he pulled tighter at his clothes. As they got to the tent opening Taylor pushed Tom through it, kneeing him hard in the kidneys. Tom stumbled as the bright sun cut into his retinas.

Around them, riflemen from both regiments were gathered, some staring, others jeering. One shouted nastily, "Not so lucky now!" While from another side a stone came whistling past his head, inches from missing him. Tom turned to where it had come from but the next assault hit him, this time words, deep, harsh: "Foul!" "Disgusting!" "Filthy!"

But they were not being directed at him. Ahead of him, siezed by the shoulders by another provost marshall, Espley, was Harris.

What all this was about Tom had no idea. Taylor pushed him down onto the ground next to a wide-canopied pine tree, siezed Tom's wrists and then tied them together firmly around the trunk.

"Beast!" Someone spat towards him. "Both of you!" It was William Bagot, a 60th like him, with whom Tom shared a tent.

He looked across to Matthew Harris, who had been similarly tied, his cheek resting against the trunk, eyes closed. He was too far away for Tom to shout to him, to ask what was going on. Taylor was similarly too far away, having stalked off towards the mess.

And so both of them remained, as the sun rose, its intensity increasing as noon approached, its cruel rays parching Tom as he sat, silently, waiting heaven knows how long to find out what had precipitated this treatment of them both.

Tired and hungry, Tom rested his head against the smooth pine tree trunk. Why had he been thus treated? Why Matt, too? Did someone believe that they were involved in whatever the voices spoke about? Gold? Ducos? That man who the major and captain had tethered to one of these trees, just as him and Matt were tethered now? Did he know?

Early evening came, as did a blessed rain shower. Tom glanced over to Matt, who was in a similar repose as he had been that afternoon, eyes closed, head bent. Shivering, Tom closed his eyes again, then opened them as a missile of some sort skimmed his temple. He felt blood trickle down.

"Schmidt, Neuchterlein!" shouted a voice he knew. "Leather cleaning duty! Dismissed!"

Then, the owner of the voice came closer, though Tom could not see from the angle he was at, just an approaching shadow and a crunch of dry earth.

"Thomas Wright," spoke Captain Frederickson, his voice low. "I am sorry that those men disturbed you in your discourse with the Lord. Do you require the pastor?"

"No, sir," managed Tom, the leakage of blood now down to his lips. Gently, the Captain wiped it away with his hand.

"Once the major has finished interrogating his man, Harris, he will require you. You just need to tell him the truth."

"Yes, sir," he whispered, looking over to where Harris had been.

He was glad that the tree obscured the captain's face from view: did not know what he needed to be truthful about, but that his commanding officer had gone out of his way to offer comfort was touching.

"Private Thomas Wright," Major Sharpe intoned, within an hour of Frederickson's speaking to him. "The crime of which you are accused is a capital offence. As Private Matthew Harris has offered little in the way of his own defence it is to you we put this charge." Tom noticed the Major look to one side of him, at the captain, before continuing.

"Should you be found guilty by this court, the punishment is to be hanged by the neck until you are dead."

"Surely not!" exclaimed Frederickson, turning to look at the major.

"I am sorry, captain, I must go by the book for such a crime, one so offensive of which both Harris and Wright have been accused."

"Excuse me, sir," Tom interjected. "Of what crime are we accused?"

Major Sharpe shifted from foot to foot.

"Assault with sodomitic intent," he declared. Tom turned his head to look at Harris, who looked back, his eye dull. Did he know what that meant? Tom didn't.

"I don't understand, sir."

"Sodomy, Wright. Do you not know? Buggery." When no realisation dawned, he asked, "Did you, or did you not spend the night alone with Private Matthew Harris?" Tom glanced at Matt again, and then slowly looked at Captain Frederickson. Tell the truth, he had urged him.

"Yes, sir."

" 'Yes, sir,' he says." Major Sharpe looked down to Beric Rossler, the rotund Sergeant of the 60th rifles division, 5th company.

"But I don't know why that - "

"Did you, or did you not touch, hold, caress or otherwise put on his person any part of yourself, or did he any part of himself?" Tom looked across to Matt again.

"The truth," snapped Sharpe. "No eyeing Harris, here."

"I heard voices again, sir," Tom said, the beginning of the truth steadying his nerves. "I was at the brook, my undergarments needed to be washed before we departed today. I heard voices in French, which I could not understand, and a voice in English asking about gold. Then Matt, you see," Tom risked a glance to his friend, "I think he must have been on duty, discovered me. So I told him about what I heard. I then recognised him, sir, as a man who had once been a boy in my father's service, and I told him I knew him."

"Is this true?" Sharpe snapped the question to Harris, whose face was expressionless.

"Yes, sir. All of it." Sharpe wheeled round onto Tom.

"And so, when the cats were away, doing my business overnight, you thought you'd rekindle your relationship with Harris here, and do your business yourself?"

His face was full of rage. However, thought Tom, apart from remaining in the 95th's tent area instead of his own, Tom was yet to learn what he was suppised to have done, especially what warranted being hanged.

"Major Sharpe," he said, "I do not understand what I - what we - are accused of."

"What you are accused of, Wright, is of being inside the arse of Harris, and he being inside the arse of you. Now, what have you to say?"

"Nothing, sir. For it did not happen. It is impossible." She saw Harris look at her, worry on his face.

"Not so lucky now, are yer, Tom, eh?" snarled Sergeant Harper, close to her ear.

"Impossible," repeated Sharpe. "So, what were yer doing holdin' hands together in Harris's tent all night? Prayin'?"

"As I said, sir," Tom replied, confidence returning to it, for of course that could not possibly have happened. "I heard a noise, I heard French voices and talk in English and gold. Harris found me, and encouraged me to come to you at first opportunity. This is my first opportunity."

"Ha!" Sharpe said, looking Tom up and down, clearly the idea of innocence behind the canvas far from his mind.

"Harris. Wright. You will submit to the doctor for medical examination." Harris hung his head.

"No!" shrieked Tom, horror-struck.

"Very well, you will submit to medical examination after you have been flogged. Sergeant Harper, take this man outside -" but Sharpe never finished his words. Tom Wright had slipped under his arm and was making for the canvas door, and freedom.

He almost made it too, but Pat Harper was quicker than he looked. Knocking Tom to the floor he placed a foot on his back. Tom felt his face crush into the earth, and choked, the breath squashed out of him.

"Enough!" Tom heard Frederickson declare. At his word, Sharpe concurred and Tom felt the huge man's hands pick her up by the shoulder. He threw Tom towards the makeshift table. Sharpe caught his body and tore apart the rifles green jacket. "Enough, sir!"

"You are not fit to wear this," the major snarled, turning to Tom. "Run away, would yer? That is your guilt there, right enough!"

"No!" yelled Harris, PM Espley restraining him, as Tom fought for breath to utter words of his own, but Sharpe was too quick and had now pushed Tom across the table, now tearing at his undershirt and making cotton shreds it. Tom caught Frederickson's eye and the look on his face told of his bitter disappointment. Tom felt sick and it was the shame he had caused the captain that was the cause, far more than the pain he was about to endure.

"Shut up, will yer?" Sharpe yelled at Harris, who fell silent. And then to Tom, snarled, "I'll do it meself, Wright, by God I will."

Tom looked up, and his heart froze. "Fifty lashes," declared Sharpe, to which Frederickson scraped back his chair and stood up, protesting, "Fifty, sir?!"

But then, as Sharpe reached his bare back, no-one spoke. The strong arm that had been pinning Tom down onto the crate edge had gone. The major backed away. Tom sought to find fabric amongst that which had been torn to make himself decent, and failed, dismally.  
"You're a girl!" exclaimed Sharpe in disbelief. A flaming girl!" Around him, mutterings came from the men assembled. Tom bent up a little to see Frederickson turning his head away before, still not looking, reached for the 60th's jacket back to Tom, who took it gratefully, holding it tightly. It only was then that Tom felt that he could stand tall now, and speak the truth.

"I am Thomas Wright, " declared Tom defiantly, suddenly assertive.

"But, that cannot be your real name," challenged Sharpe.

"I took the army as a living," Tom continued, ignoring Sharpe's comment. "And to pay my father's debt."

"Money? Your father owes money, and he sends a girl into the army?!"

"My father is...gone," replied Tom, refusing to look away from the major. "My mother's dead. I took the chance to enlist when I could. I have done everything the men in my regiments did - "

"Your name, Miss."

Here it was, thought Tom. This was when the world stopped turning. She looked at him, in the eye, and breathed.

"Haycock. Roberta Haycock." She let that sink for a moment, before continuing, "my father was Lieutenant General John - "

"I know who your father was, and what he did. No doubt, everyone in this bloody regiment does, aye, and the ones at San Sebastian, and the ones at Zaragoza. All of them were American-raised companies, aye, and might have been here today had it not been for that one fateful day in South Carolina."

He looked across to the current commander of the 60th rifles regiment. "And I am certain that Captain Frederickson is more than familiar with his treachery."

Tom felt a gasp leave her lungs. Poor Frederickson, her damaged captain. Now they knew. Not the news that he was a woman - he didn't care about that. But that it was known now his captain, who had led, inspired, humoured, taught and cared for them throughout their time in the Iberian Peninsular, whose injuries were inextricably linked to his character, to his name, to the insults he received, cruel jibes when some of his men found his precision and exactness overbearing.

Tom kept his eyes fixed on Sharpe. He knew that he would just crumple up and cry if he was compelled to look at the compassionate, kind-hearted captain.

"He was my father, sir. He did do those things. He had a choice and failed, I have a choice. I renounced his name as soon as I could. That was the debt to which I was referring. So, if you could get on with my flogging, sir, I would be most obliged."

Sharpe let out a snort. "Beat you? I will not beat you, lass. You should not be here - "

"Then I'll leave, I'll find another regiment - " she interrupted, but Sharpe shot back, "A French regiment?" Again, the suspicious look was back in his eyes.

"No!" she declared, outraged. Fight for the French?!

"Nothing now would surprise me," replied Sharpe. "The traitrous offspring of John Haycock -" Sharpe spat the name, "has been thrice where he should not, hearing words he should not...or rather, she." His eyes roamed her body. Tom held the jacket tighter, and blushed.

"Perhaps you may permit the lady to dress, Major?" Frederickson's words were clear, short, concise. Cold. Despite Tom glancing to find his face, he did not make eye contact with her. Sharpe, however, laughed.

"This is no lady, Captain Frederickson. What we have here is a whore. Oh, she won't hang for buggery, nor you, eh, Harris? For we know what you were about. Reunited, then, as you admitted yourself, Miss Haycock, touching, embracing, loving?" Tom said nothing. They had embraced; they had held hands. He had comforted her. "Harris here taking the chance of privacy to plough you?" the Major sneered, telling what he thought to be the torrid truth. Tom felt his face burn again.

"No, sir!" protested Harris. "I discovered him on my watch, twice, disturbed by talk in the camp. One you know, sir. Last night I worked out that Tom here couldn't be a boy. So I took him in, for his own sake. I told him to come to you in the morning."

Yes, thought Tom. That was true. But only about the gold. And when he had known that they were suspected of unnatural relations, Tom knew he himself had to give up Roberta. He looked to Harris and smiled, gratefully. The man had kept Tom's secret.

"So, what did you 'ear that was so important, woman?"

Tom pulled himself up again. He had been accepted into the army and was going to behave like a soldier.

"As I said, earlier, sir, voices, French and English, and mention of gold." A look of familiarity crossed his face.

"So," Sharpe mused, thinking of something far away. And then he stared at Tom.

"Girl, you will be placed in confinement while I figure out what to do with you." He nodded to Harper, who took her arm, roughly. She felt a blush take her again as she held on to the green jacket tighter. "And, I say to all here present: for the secutity of our regiments, and the British Army, for morale, the news that this woman's father was who he was shall not be disclosed to anyone outside this hearing.

Sharpe looked at Harper, who gave a hrief nod, then to Harris, who said quietly, "yes sir". Espley also nodded in agreement.

She glanced at Harris, relieved that by allowing the truth to be revealed spared them punishment.

However, as she was linked to the worst traitor to the British, he knew that Sharpe believed she was involved in whatever belligerence was being meted out to the Spanish by the Catalunyans. She may yet hang for her father's name.

Yet it was Frederickson's face, a look of betrayal, that made her feel as if she had been quartered. He had bid her to truthfulness, never guessing where that might lead. Instead of protesting, as she felt inclined to do, Thomas Wright lowered his head penitentially and followed the Irish sergeant in silence. 


	4. Loyalty

4.  
"You didn't have to tell him," said Harris, who had been permitted to visit Tom the next day in the confinement tent. PM Taylor, stoic and uncorruptable nodded Harris through noncommittally. Major Sharpe had bid it, so of course Matthew Harris may enter and visit the prisoner.

"We would have been hanged, Matt," she replied, then added, grimacing, "Do men really do what he said?"

"Some men," nodded Matt. "Not most men."

"They think I am a spy, because of my name." Tom said. "Because of my father. Because of my happening to overhear so much about a plot."

Harris said nothing immediately, looking Tom up and down. He was still wearing his lower undergarments, betraying his weakness, but instead of the rifles trousers and jacket, which had been confiscated, he had a shawl round his top half. Tom noticed Harris looking at her form.

"From Ramona. She was most astonished to be asked to see me." Tom thought back to the woman arriving with a basket of linen as she looked down atbthe ill-fitting dress.

"My husband has told me," Ramona had said, looking past Tom "that I needed to see the woman in confinement. Where is she?"

It took Tom to explain that Harper meant him, rather than a woman expecting to give birth, and, after an initial start, told her to take the blanket and she would bring a dress the next day.

"You still have a cut on your head," said Harris."

"And I would dearly love to bathe," Tom replied. He looked up, his eyes resting on Harris's face.

"I am just so very sorry to have disgraced to captain," she continued, feeling tears prick behind her eyes. "For I know I will be turned out of the 60th for this, and the army is all I know."

That afternoon, eschewing his own rest time, Matt Harris brought Tom his own washing water and some leaves from the same tree that he had seen Tom take the day before.

"You will look most becoming in a dress, Tom," he remarked, and left Tom to his ablutions.

8888888

"She was one of yours, Frederickson, what say you?"

They had both had time to think on the day's events, ones which had begun depressively, heading towards the distasteful but necessary direction of capital punishment and finishing in shock that they had a Polly Perks in their midst.

Frederickson looked at the back of the retreating figure, being led as it was towards the confinement tent, guarded as it was at all times, that acted like a temporary prison cell. He turned to look at Sharpe's grim face.

"I gained a lot of my men from the 52nd," Frederickson began. "I believe she was one of them." But Sharpe held up a hand.

"I'm not blaming you, William: who could tell?"

"He..she...was a good marksman, good on the ground," the captain remarked. "Fast...lithe. Not called "lucky" for nothing. He...she...Tom..." he settled on, "has fought almost from the day we began in Portugal."

"Good grief, she must have been no more than a child!" exclaimed the major. "What must she be now, twenty?"

"Eighteen. Not many choices for an orphan, destitute girl, I suppose," Frederickson mused. Richard Sharpe took in the captain's expression. He had begun life in a brothel. It was true that almost any other choice of employment was preferable.

"I must say, you are taking this all rather easily William. Her father withheld provisions to Boston while you were under siege; supplied the revolutionaries, sent gold out of His Majesty's treasury intended for army pay back across the Atlantic for the cause of Irish home rule."

"Yes. This is true," agreed Frederickson. "Bloody woman, no pkace in the army for a woman. But I can understand why she took the King's shilling, Richard, like so many orphans do. She has never to my knowledge deserted, or ever been derelict in her duty. It should be remembered " He looked out over the dry ground to the confinement tent. "We should not desert the child."

"Aye. Aye," nodded Sharpe. "But all the same, a young girl, daughter of the biggest traitor since John Paul Jones; a senior officer who set out to deliberately lose us the colonies?" He marched over to the tent opening himself now, as if expecting Tom Wright to have broken loose and was in the process of absconding. "Don't you think it is at all strange that a young girl has hidden for years in the army without being discovered,and has stayed lucky for so long? She must have had help."

"You think she is a spy, you mean? Involved in the business with the Catalunyans?" Frederickson frowned, his eyepatch crinkling.

"In return for cuckooing in the army nest for years," Sharpe nodded, as if he had hit upon something. "Aye. Years, with the opportunity to spy for the French in return for being left alone, unattacked, uninjured on the field."

"Well, Richard, she can't have been that good." Frederickson held up the green rifles jacket that had once belonged to Thomas Wright.

"Eh?"

"We are winning, aren't we? Wellington is on the verge of breaking over the border."

Sharpe thought about this. Was she actually a spy, one in league with Ducot and the Catalunyans? Why would she mention his name? Yet, she was fastidious about her uniforms, even to the point of keeping the red, 52nd Oxford's one. And if she was a spy, wouldn't the French have had a better handle on her? In which case, she was a damn good soldier.

Ha, a woman, a damn good soldier? Sharpe thought again. He would never believe that.

But of course, he had known a woman like that, the only woman he had ever loved. He would tell Antonia about Theresa, her mother when she was grown.

"She will stay with Ramona, with the women," nodded Sharpe. "We will not have her leave."

"Very good, Major," nodded Frederickson, and took his leave.

No, thought Sharpe. For if she is gone, how ever will we find out who is right: me or Sweet William? How will we ever find out if she was a traitor like her father, or simply a poor, misguided girl working for pay?

Besides, he had nearly worked out this puzzle to do with the Catalunyans, and it would not do to lose one of the pieces.

88888888

William Frederickson had told Sharpe he would take the news to the former Tom Wright, that they were moving camp twenty miles north, and she was permitted to remain with the camp, with the women, and must not attemot to rejoin the 60th.

All this was in his mind when he touched Tom Wright's shoulder, clothed now in a cotton chinz, still wrapped in the dark, brown woollen blanket. But, she was not asleep.

"Miss Haycock," Frederickson said, taking his hand from her arm as if she were fire. "Again, I dusturb you in prayer." Tom opened his eyes.

"Sir," she whispered, and stood up. "I am also sorry too, sir." Tom had hoped that the captain would come. It had never been her intention to bring shame to him, and she told him so.

"'Tis nothing but a minor inconvenience. I am to be one man short when we go into battle tomorrow, or the next day." He waved his hand away, emphatically, then continued, befire Tom had the chance to offer to fill her old place with herself.

"Major Sharpe has decided that you are to remain in camp, as a vulnerable young woman with no family." Tom was staring at him wide-eyed, his macabre features moving as he spoke.

"But -" she began, her brain racing. However, the captain continued to talk, brusquely and curtly.

"You are to go with the women, you will abide there. You will work as one of them, with the jobs that are needed, yes?"

"Yes, but - " The information was coming fast, and her mind was agreeing to it all. But the overriding feeling that she had was to tell the captain that she was sorry that she was related to such a man who had caused such widespread destruction and devastation.

"Do we have an accord, Miss Haycock?" This time, he waited for her to speak.

"Yes, sir," she nodded, and was astonished that he saluted. Automatically, so did Tom.

"Your shilling," said Frederickson, holding it out. "A symbol of our agreement. You shall not attempt to rejoin the army." Carefully, Tom took it, looking at its obverse, and for the tiny scratches near King George's ringlets.

"Yes, sir," she nodded. "And - "

But the captain strode away, pushing the canvas out of his way as he went.

88888888

They had moved to Almudévar, north of the brook and the river that fed it. She had spent the night alone under a canvas next to the one Sergeant Harper and his wife and child slept

Reducing the camp to baggage trains was something Tom had become used to in six years and it was to her shock, and then embarrassment that she was chided by Rossler for taking her usual role with the 60th.

Harris had given her a sympathetic look as she slunk away and had himself been chided for slacking, so Tom decided to wait by the mules until the camp was on the move, feeling the same consternation when Major Sharpe called a halt at the bottom of a low, wide ridge, whence the reassembly of camp took place.

The men had orders to march the next morning, so spent the evening preparing for their march - rifles were stripped down and cleaned; uniforms were washed amd neatened. Food was eaten, heartily, and with a good quantity of beer.

Tom cooked, and took in several uniforms of the 95th's, Harris's included, but none of her old company came near her. She wasn't exactly shunned, so much, as an invisible dividing line had been drawn. Lucky Tom was no more; she was a camp follower now, and did women's things, work with them. How long it would last, Tom was not sure, but she had given her word to the captain on her shilling that she would do this work and not fight as a soldier.

Three skirmishes, a few wounded and soldiers to tend, that had been the next fortnight, and Tom soon found that, in a second-hand dress she had more-or-less become invisible. And invisibility brought the advantage of guards being dropped and tongues freer than they ought to be.

Tom soon found out that the soldiers believed the two rifle companies would soon be joining a foot and horse cavalry still further north to drive the French from a fort on the northern frontier of Catalunya. Additionally, they would be needed to snipe and cover, before the dragoons came in to play with cannon.

Bagot, who had wounded her head, when she had been tied to the tree - the blow which had left a scarred lump on the left of her temple - had said in her hearing that once the fort was cleared then the last of the French would be gone and there would be a great push to the border.

And, all the while she was in camp, cooking, washing, nursing, Tom realised that she had not heard any more voices at night, or shouts, or gunfire. Whatever that had been must have been over.

Until that night. That night, the dreaded pain returned and she hauled herself out of her blanket knowing that blood was absorbing into her clothes. Ramona had given her rags for the purpose, so she quickly bound one inside her petticoat - one problem solved - and tried to go back to sleep despite the horrible seizing of her muscles.

"The worse that they are," Ramona had told Tom, in her brief, but eye-opening lesson, "the easier child birth will be, for it is the same muscle that eases out the baby."

Tom had scoffed on her head at the thought of childbirth, and wished Ramona would have said instead what would help to be rid of the pain. Alcohol, probably. But there was little chance of that.

Walking helped, just pacing around. So Tom slipped on her underbreeches and wrapped the shawl around herself, stepping into her boots as she began to tread away from the 95th's camp and towards the trees.

And then she saw them, the rifles, both the 60th and the 95th assembling to march - north, she reckoned, by their direction. To meet a larger company and provide cover? She would never know, and the pang of sadness that she would not be going with them made her feel as if her heart were being rushed.

To work, then, she thought, despite the darkness. To washing, to mending. Yes, she could do some mending - blankets were always in need of blanket stitch edging and some the cotton sheets of the officers' had holes that needed darning.

Tom wished she hadn't turned back to watch the column ebb away from the camp. To her left shoulder Ramona would have said, in her eminently sensible manner, "It is so that we will miss them. They will be back, and it is our job to be ready for our men." But there was no man Tom was preparing to welcome, not a lover, like the Spanish woman meant.

Pain again, coursed through her lower stomach. In the full Tom sat, needle in hamd, work in lap. This would take her mimd off going with the rifles; this would take her mind off the pain in her stomach.

The moon was high when Tom finished the last stitch. She got up, stretching her legs out. It was no use - this woman's fertility bleeding was still painful and exhausting. But then the thought occurred to Tom that there was no-one to tell her not to bathe.

Returning the mended washing to the stores Tom slipped past the annexe of her tent and beyond. The water flow was stronger here and Tom knew that she needed to make sure she didn't go in too deeply, otherwise the current might sweep her away.

And, it was glorious. To strip off and be free, under the cover of darkness. To be clean, and fresh, it was heavenly.

Just as Tom was re-dressing a crack of a twig of and dropped the young Spanish woman slumped down and began to crawl away.

Powder, bullet, ramrod - fire. This time her aim was true, and the man flopped down.

Another, this time freeing two women who were being pulled by one of the officers who had left his horse to claim what he clearly thought was his. Down he went, and Tom got two more men cleanly in the back.

She had to move now, for her position was beginning to attract attention. Sweeping under the edge of the tent canvas, she made swift ground to behind the back of Ramona's tent. Mrs Harper was protesting insistently, and the baby was crying. Ramona was holding him to her chest, refusing to go with the man.

He lashed out and hit her in the face and she fell. This gave Tom a clear shot at the man, who was bearing down on her. But before she could reload a voice shouted, "Colonel Mailliot!" and then a lot of words in French. She turned to the voice, crouching own as a shot whistled past her head.

The man, "Maillot", who had been harrassing Ramona looked in her direction. Tom slunk lower and crept as silently as she could in underbreeches and a dress towards the tents of Mrs Anson and Mrs Paget. Neither women were harmed, but both were shaken. Kitty Anson turned in horror as Tom stepped out of the shadows but stood still and quiet when she realised it was Tom.

"There's a cave towards the top of the river. Collect what you can," Tom instructed, "food, blankets, tell the women to get there and stay there til someone comes for you. You will be safe there." Kitty nodded, as Charlotte Paget bent immediately to the task. Then, an almighty scream issued from the top of the camp. Schmidt's woman was being dragged to tbe ground, the child she had with her pulled out of her arms. In the moonlight Tom could just about see the officer still on horseback jump down beside the man who was now attempting to defile Anna Schmidt, raising up the bayonet and strike it down into the child. Anna screamed again, but had a hand clamped over her mouth as the man continued his vile attack.

Tom felt hot rage well up in him, but it gave way to cool, logic as she quickly assessed the situation. Then, powder-ball-ramrod, once - twice - three times and three more assailants were dead. In the carnage, however, the word had clearly begun to spread as the women were not standing in mute terror, or attempting to abscond, but were at meaningful tasks. Tom saw blankets, she saw bread, he saw chidren wrapped close to bodies.

Good. They had listened to her. She moved to another position, this time nearer to the stores. At the same time fire and destruction of the domestic tents was being carried out. Tom counted to see how many of the men were lest. Two, were raiding the stores. One was destroying a tent nearby, presumably in search of an occupant. The officer on horseback made four.

She reloaded and took aim at the officer. Him gone would hopefully mean disarray for those under him. A shout went up, presumably to alert someone that an assailant was hidden, and Tom narrowly missed another bullet, this one lodging in the tree by his leg.

She dashed forward, only to be confronted by another officer on horseback. Now she came to think of it, there had been two. He raised his sword to strike it down on her, but Tom was too quick for him. Turning her rifle, she held it with the butt end and swung it around, striking the horse in the mouth. At once, the animal reared, crushing the cart with its hind legs, throwing its rider, who was projected back several feet, landing on the now silent body of Anna Schmidt.

Tom surged forward, siezing the man's own weapon, a French officer's cavalry blade, striking it straight into his stomach.

A round whistled by her ear again, but it has missed, and she ducked down again.

The other officer, French, Spanish words, despite British Army red jackets, they were retreating. Seizing the sword of the dead officer, she found the horse that she had struck, pressing her hand gently to its cheek in the way she had often seen Matthew Harris do when breaking in yearlings. It calmed, and Tom leapt towards it, managing to mount it, tearing up her dress from the skirt to accommodate her legs.

Whatever the reason for retreat, the three remaining men and the one mounted officer were retreating, not fleeing in terror, Tom realised, but going, as if their objective had been achieved. She rode on, following them as, in the moonlight, she saw a ribbon of figures moving slowly towards towards the riverbank.

Words - French, Spanish - Tom did not know, were being shouted angrily between the attackers. The three men on foot had gestured to the French officer, before splashing through the river, the huffs and snorts of horses, presumably tied on the opposite bank filtered through to Tom.

She moved closer, and was almost at the position she had been when they rode into camp. Just get the angle right, thought Tom, and she would get the bastard thay had raped and murdered Anna.

But it was impossible. They were too far away and the angle was too steep. Their heads kept showing themselves around a rock, dodging back and forth in view. Were she to miss, the bullet may ricochet right back to her.

Tom edged forward, and she could see that the three men had mounted their horses. But they did not ride off immediately - French, Spanish were relayed between them and it seemed to Tom that one of the men was the interpreter between the languages.

Then, they were still, the horses braced to ride. Damn! Tom cursed, at her failure to shoot these invaders, and made to ride back, to see of any women remained, or what could be done about the camp.

But, the French and Spanish speakers suddenly began arguing again and, from the admixture one word sprang from the mixture, one name. One she had heard before. Driving on the horse around and galloping in the opposite direction of the camp Tom followed that one name.

Ducos.  



	5. The Rebel Fort

5.  
To the north, two hours away a fort, occupied by the French crystallised into existence on a ridge. Two sentries guarded the outer gate, which opened to allow the three men, which Tom had pursued, entry.

A French fort. Tom panted as she bid her horse slow, the exhilaration and adrenaline of the journey leaving her now.

Ducos. That name had been spoken twice before on the occasions she had heard intruders, and that night, when they had invaded, attacked and destroyed tbe 60th's and 95th's camp. They were out there, she suspected, her former comrades, just far enough away to stage sniper fire for infantry on a French-held fort.

It was a name that troubled Major Sharpe, and had led to her displacement from the army. It had wreaked devastation on innocent women and children. She, alone, was in the right place at the rught time.

Dismounting, she thanked her horse for taking her there and let it free. It was very likeky, Tom knew, that it would run after the others. It would be taken when found, for horses were valuable, stabled and given food and water.

For Tom, however, it took her an hour to approach, hiding behind rocks and bushes to minimise any chance of being seen. Dawn was quickly becoming morning and the heat of the day was rising quickly.

A low wall led her to an outside storehouse, cool, refreshing. Unguarded. A cellar was beneath.

Tom slept uncomfortably against some logs and timber, her rifle stowed behind the wood lest she was discovered.

88888888

The day quickly turned to early evening. Opening her eyes, Tom felt the orange sunlight on her face. She binked in tbe semi-darkness, wondering what had woken her. But it was not the waning daylight. Above her, the floorboards creaked and her hindbrain recognised that it had been this creaking, feet pressing on the wood, that had roused her.

Tom yawned, and stretched, her mind coming to alertness quickly, listening, thinking. Though the cellar was dim it was still light enough to make out a large tap to which, presumably, water was fed. Yes, she was thirsty. Water, then try to get her hands on something to eat.

Taking care to make as little noise as possible, Tom tilted his head near the spigot, raised the handle and was indeed rewarded with mouthfuls of clean, cool water.

Another noise stopped her now, though, the creaking above came again, along with a scrape of something being dragged across it.

Damn! She would not be able to get out now without being seen if there were people above.

Tom waited, and listened for more sounds, more scraping, then realised the stores were being stripped of supplies: French voices, though she could not understand their meaning, sounded imperative, as if giving orders, sharp and clear. This was interwoven with Spanish words, perhaps acknowledgement, perhaps replies.

With care, Tom climbed the few steps that led up from this cellar room and pushed on the hatch and her view of things confirmed what she had heard: a French officer, tall, dark-haired, imposing of stature was directing Spanish men around the equipment and arsenal: guns were being procured, cannon, shells, bullets, canmon-shot: eighteen-pounders by the look of things.

And then it occurred to Tom that this fort was preparing to defend itself from attack, the armoury being selected were for French rifles, far inferior to the experimental Baker rifles that the 95th and 60th were issued with.

Tom ran her hand up and down the smooth wood of her own, deciding what to do. The men who had attacked and killed the camp were here - Spanish, French, and, she knew, looking back at the French officer again, he had been one of them, tbe one they had called Mailliot - Colonel Mailliot - who had attacked Ramona and baby Patrick, who had ridden the roan horse that had pulled the cart around the camp that had demolished the tents, that had brought men to rape and murder. She would find out what she could, then report back to Major Sharpe. If the fort was preparing for an attack, Tom concluded, she woukd be part of it. And her first target would be Mailliot. 


	6. The Traitor

6.  
Tom had made her way to the first level of the fort without being seen. This was mainly due to the fact that she had left behind her beloved rifle in the stores, hidden, with the powder she still had in the pouch around her waist, taken from their own camp stores, and the bullets.

Tempting as it had been to raid the French arsenal, Tom knew from personal experience that the powder was damp, and if it were not damp, it was adulterated with dirt or ground at droppings. Had the French armoury the quality of their wine then Wellington would by now be fighting a desperate battle with his back to the Atlantic.

It was not the quality of powder that was the main reason for Tom's confidence at remaining unseen but instead a chance discovery of the servants' quarters, a room leading off from the weapons stores. Peasant clothes, ones belonging to a woman, tight at the waist and voluptuous, had been close to dry on a rope strung from one end of the dank, airless room. Also a cap, to be tied over hair - hers as usual was tied at th back with a ribbon, fashionable as it was with men. She slapped the cap onto her head and pulled in the ties.

A fire burned therein too, suggesting to Tom that the occupants were not far. Acting in haste she shuffled the blue cotton gown over the already torn chinz one of Ramona's and her under-trousers, reaching for the apron to complete her ensemble before shuffling the rest of the clothes over the rope to disguse what was missing.

A click at a hitherto unnoticed door on the other side of the room drew Tom's attention and she trod out, making sure she did not make a sound. Voices within the room, light, pleasant, suggested that they had no cause for suspicion.

Breathing heavily, and fighting to return to calmness, Tom leaned back against the door, then made off in the direction the first level, above which, on the second, the cannon were mounted. She was a woman again; she was invisible, she was nothing. She merely had to keep her mouth closed and her eyes open.

And, her luck held. A near miss from two sentries had driven her into a mess room, where she busied herself with a broom, that had been propped in the corner. The French soldiers had leered at her - but no more - and proceeded noisily along the corridor, heckling and jeering at the finding of a vulnerable female.

A flight of stairs led her to the back of the fort, on the second floor. Above her were the walkways that lined the outer castle parapets - the guns lay there, she knew. If she could get up there she would wet the cords so they would not fire - this, at least would delay their defence. But, it was too heavily guarded to risk it now - men Spanish and French - were running up and down them, ferrying ammunition and charging powder.

Ha, thought Tom. Even without her tampering, the guns would fail to give a very long trajectory with what they were using.

Tom hustled back into the shadow of the stairs, pulling the broom that she had brought with her close to, as a pair of French soldiers strode past her with the long black box-cases that she knew contained the eighteen-pounders needed for the gunners.

Which meant the mess would not be far away, for the men needed to be close at hand should attackers come.

Tom crept up to the second floor rooms now and, further along she could see candles lit, on a low, oak bench. Behind it, a general, indulging on the food, the chicken grease dripping down his chin as he bit into a thigh. Tom held her broom close, lowering her eyes and slunk past the door.

Her entrance raised a look from the general, who muttered, "Oui, oui", and waved his hand towards her. He was happy for her to get on with cleaning, so she began in the corner, sweeping slowly and carefully. A few moments later she continued to stare at the floor as the General welcomed officers into the room.

The officers spoke rapidly in French, the General continuing to chew on the chicken, them throwing the bone onto the floor and reaching for another. Tom brushed the bone towards him, with the rest of the dust, chancing a look over her shoulder - two officers, facing the general. One of them was Mailliot.

Having worked her way to the door as the generral now pulled at the chicken carcass, Tom listened. There was a lot of talking, sharing information, the other officer pointing to map, and then jabbing his finger to the unglazed window, through which Tom had looked at the rough, expansive plain-land over which she had ridden, following the red-jacketed murderers. The sun was settibg now, and soon it would be dark.

Tom must have been noticed to have turned when they did, for she now caught the attention of both of the officers. She looked down again, and continued to maneouvre the dust in the direction of the doorway.

There was a rapid conversation between the two of them, concluding with Mailliot stepping towards her, then towards the table. Did they want food? Did they want the food removing.

"Si, si," Tom nodded eagerly, hoping she appeared deferential enough. Apparently she also appeared willing enough because the other French officer bore down on her, backing her to the wall, and reached for her bodice.

Ready to fight, Tom gripped the broom. But a shout came up from the lower floor bringing the men's attention back to warfare. A return in French brought the shout, "Englis! Englis!"

The other officer who had tried to molest her turned, then ran to Mailliot's side, who was in the corridor, pointing down to the rocks below. Tom turned her head.

On the plain a column of figures were now moving, a regiment dressed in red, the colour of their uniforms intensifued by the rays of the setting sun. Both officers were now out of the room and down the corridor, shouting orders to men above and below. In contrast, the general, who Tom believed Mailliot had called Calvert was leaving at a more leisurely place, flicking his hand towards the half-eaten chicken.

Tom removed the chicken, taking care to carry it along the corridor and downstairs as discreetly as she could. The kitchen was next to the room from which she had purloined her outfit and she pushed her hip against it, laying it on the table, but not before she had torn sone of the leftover flesh from the bones and eaten it herself.

A noise from outside set her alert a few minutes later and she slipped from the kitchen. Around her the fort was beginning their battle engagement, retaliating - not very well if Tom were the judge - to the attack from the British army outside.

Tom listened further, for the shots did not sound as if they were coming from heavy guns, indeed, the pick-pick-pick of bullrts suggested rifled.

She returned back to the lower corridor again, carefully opening the door to check it was still unoccupied before returning the clothes. Tom stood there in the ruined dress and white underbreeches again.

Uniform. That was what she needed. Detesting that she should have to wear a French uniform, she left the little sitting room and climbed down the flight of stairs that took her back down to the stores, locating a pair of white breeches about her size and blue tunic, cursing the heavens that it were green.

Dark had fallen now so Tom banked on the fact that no-one woukd notice that she was not wearing the white cross-straps of the French soldier then she descended further into the cellar to collect her own rifle.

But, before she did so, Tom chanced upon a box in the corner, its top off. Her eye was caught by the colour and she walked over to it. Looking carefully at the contents Tom realised it contained about a dozen redcoats, bright scarlet if the British Army, just like the ones the men were wearing who she had pursued to the fort...just like the ones of the attackers on the Spanish village. Just like the one Colonel Mailliot was wearing when he attacked Ramona and just like the one who murdered Mrs Schmidt and her baby.

It was clear to Tom now that these jackets were subterfuge designed to make people believe the British were attacking them. Clever. Very clever.

Tom made to reach out for the jackets, to take with her, to show the major, when a shout from above passed from cannoner to cannoner. Tom pushed herself back towards the wall, and then slipped quickly through the door through which she had come, pressing herself against the wall of the fort.

Before her, the foot regiment she had seen earlier from inside the fort, a light company with bayonet and rifke, was slowly coming into view.

Perhaps if she could join in, get rid of those swines who had attacked the women, get back to Major Sharpe and tell him, if not, the officer here, who could undoubtedly get a message to Wellington, she may make a big difference.

The wall reverberated as she stood, back pressed to it, and she felt the vibrations of the gunfire - the French were firing from the second level onto the regi ent. But there were other people were around in the closer boulders and rocks. Tom scrambled past two rocks, which screened her from the firing.

It was the rifles division, the white Prince of Wales' feathers' badge glinting in the artillery fire. So, this is where they had come, thought Tom, and presumably somewhere her own, the 60th, would be positioned to snipe too.

Before Tom could remind herself that they were not, in fact, her own, faces she knew, and had fought with, and marched beside - Arthur Fletcher, George Bagot and, behind him, Anders Schmidt - came into view.

There was a wrench in Tom's heart as she looked at Schmidt's face again: he was yet ignorant of the fact that his wife and child had been butchered to death.

A grenade landed near Tom's leg and she dived for cover as iron and tin splintered apart where she had stood. The rock protected her from the blast and she hugged her knees and hid her head as the blast cleaved the air. Another one, but further off gave Tom the opportunity to move.

Providentially, the ammunition had stopped for a moment. Tom looked up, trying to gauge when the next would begin. There, like a dancer in limelight, stood Mailliot.

The gunners had managed to right their guns again, clearing out the residue left inside the cannons, built up rapidly due to impure powder.

Tom dragged her eyes away from the murderer, as she heard noises around her: there were other rifles there too, other riflemen. She chanced a look above her rock and could make out the outline of the short, stovepipe hats that the 95th wore and, in the illumination from the next earth-renting blast from above, red collars of her own, of her 60th.

Who were they? More to the point, could she work out their strategy and help them? Maybe get a shot at that damned colonel?

This time the firing from above was met with equal vehemence from around her. The "pop - pop - pop" of rifle-fire punctuated the night. Tom managed to get in two rounds herself when a shell exploded to her right and she was blown down the hill a little, tumbling, with rifle in hand, to the feet of two men.

It was rifleman Cooper, her once-competitor who hauled Tom to her feet and, when realising who she was, grinned, and said to the other rifleman, "Well, Matt, I think she wanted to join us after all!"

Tom turned and smiled into the face of her friend. Harris, however, did not smile, and ducked as a bullet whistled past his head, before asking, "Tom? Why are you here?"

"Down!" exclaimed Cooper, as another missile, this time a shell, burst forth its contents just yards from them."

"I followed attackers of the camp," Tom burbled, trying to get her words right. "The camp was attacked; I shot some of them. The men came here."

"Wait here," instructed Matt and, before she could say anything, both riflemen were making it up the boulder-strewn hill, finding closer vantage points with which to get a better shot at the French gunners above them.

A shout behind them made Tom duck. A minute later a projectile flew over her head, crashing into the upper parapet of the fort, blasting awsy cannon and men. Tbe breach smoked and steamed as crashing ironware and the screams of men filled the air.

She got as far as half way up from her position, to see the outcome of the damage, to find out where Mailliot was, but hands gripped her shoulders and pushed her down.

"Look at this, Major," drawled a west-of-Ireland voice. "Looks like we've caught a frog." Tom gasped as he waited to hear the voice that went with that voice. Sure enough, the south Yorkshire accent of the major joined him.

"'appen we 'ave, Pat," Major Sharpe replied, the hands squeezing her shoulders painfully. "A bastard frog."

"A bastard, maybe." Sergeant Harper, his nine-bore over his shoukder, pulled at her hair hair, and held her back close to his, her neck straining back. It wouldn't take them long, Tom knew for either of them to recognise her.

"Roberta Haycock?!" Sharpe's voice betrayed his shock? But before he could continue, another voice joined thoae of the two riflemen.

"Do you know this ruffian?" Tom strained her eyes to see if she knew him. He was a Colonel, his blue eyes shone as another shell exploded before them. "A French?"

"No, sir," replied Sharpe. "This ruffian goes by the name of Private Tom Wright, Colonel."

"Bless me, lucky Tom? Warnt you locked up?"

"I was, managed Tom, pleased the burly sergeant had let go of her hair. "Listen, Major. The camp. There was an attack."

"Oh, aye?"

" The women - shots were fired, a chariot drove men into the camp and - "

But Tom's story was interrupted by a concentration of shots from the wall breach. At once, all three men left her, taking up positions on the rocks just below, and in turn the 95th and some of the 60th fired back.

Tom ran forward too: as many men that were available were needed close to the part-demolished wall. She ducked close to another, reloaded, and fired, getting a gunner in the arm as he was in the process of lighting the fuse.

Another shot, and another gunner was taken out. Beside him, she noticed, with satisfaction, berating the gunners for misfiring was Mailliot.

She trained her eye on the man; he was moving round too much to get a good enough aim - he was hastening on riflemen of their own.

To her left, more rifles were stepping forward, aiming at the French own rufles now. Another cannon fired overhead, this time the walll crumbled to the left.

And now the French rifkes were in an advantageous position over the British, pock-pock-pock was heard as the gunners concentrated their fire to the right, towards the advancing redcoats - the South Essex, Tom had heard their commander call them - then trained het head forward. The French rifles, Colonel Mailliot - all were her target now.

She managed two rounds, missing the first, but the second hitting one snipper full in the chest. As Tom reloaded for another, her eye trained on her target, Major Sharpe stepped over the rocks, into the sights of her target. Tom shouldered the rifle and got the French rifleman in the shoulder.

Another cannon fired, the ballista flying clean over the fort's partialy-demolished wall. A group of 60th had spread itself over the inner landscape, their red collars ripening in the intermittent flashes of powder. One or two crept forward.

One, Neuchterlein, inched forward, striking a Spanish powder monkey, fatally in the head. Another, Paget, stepped into his place, firing his ramrod just in time to get a gunnery officer through the neck.

As Tom reloaded for another shot, she felt her heart quicken and palpitate: he was here, beckoning on a group of 60th on - Captain Frederickson.

Powder - bullet - ramrod: Tom raised her rifle. Frederickson had got an advantageous position between two boulders and had picked off two snipers training down on then.

Behind him, Tom saw, Mailliot was training a rifle taken from a dead man on the captain. She leapt out, exposing herself to the gunners as she shot out at Mailliot, who reeled, though had managed to fire.

Was he dead? Tom did not know. She looked where Captain Frederickson had been and was relieved to see that her former commander was crouched there, staring up, frozen, realising that he had cheated a bullet.

Frederickson stood up, reloaded his own rifle then took a look in Tom"s direction, nodding briefly. He'd seen her. She crouched lower and Frederickson, flanked now by four 60th men, continued through the breach of the fort and up througb it, dodging their way through the hail of bullets and shells. Above, on the crumbling parapet, Mailliot was deserting, his gunbers abandoning their positions and the rifles and the South Essex storming the breach.

Tom retreated now, climbing back round towards the back of the fort, through the still unguarded door into the armoury, then through the other door and into courtyard. This was likely where tbe Colonel would come. She could fire on him and any of the attackers from there.

But before Tom reached the door anhand was on her shoulder: Major Sharpe was bringing her around to face him.

"Roberta, what are you doing here? I left you at camp."

"I followed the men who attacked us," Tom began. "At the camp, I was telling you earlier, sir - "

"No!" exclaimed Sharpe, hotly. "You have betrayed me - betrayed your captain. Did you not swear never to do this again?"

"I attacked them; I followed them - here. The general here is Calvert, the colonel is Mailliot. They have red army jackets they use as a disguise - those attacks that you know of, where the attackers are pretending to be British." She wriggled from his grip and undid the French jacket, which she flung to the ground, then removed the red one that she had underneath, thrusting it into Major Sharpe's hands.

"There!" Tom said, as Sharpe looked at the coat. "You'll find that it is the same as the one you compared my own 52nd coat to."

Sharpe looked from the coat back up to Tom.

"This?" he said. "Anyone could tell me this. You left the camp, girl, you came here, specifically."

In the background, Tom saw the major's face, crinkled in anger. But then she saw something else, which made her cry out, "Mailliot!"

But, before either of them could say anything a round of explosives suggested most of the south wall had been demolished in tbe largest breach so far.

"Wait here," Sharpe demanded. But Tom did not wait. Beyond the wall, through the gate, the sounds of horses being readied pricked her pre-frontal corte.

She must get to the stables, for, out of the fort came five men clad in the same red uniforms that Sharpe had dropped at her feet, their mounts eager to leave.

Tom got to the courtyard. A sixth was about to join them, his dappled horse whinnying and stamping in impatience.

Reaching for her powder, Tom reloaded and shot the man clean in the chest. Picking up the redcoat that Shatpe had dropped Tom threw it on then, swinging her rifle around, leapt onto the horse's back. With luck the men waiting to ride would not see her face, just her jacket, and she could follow the blackguards to wherever it was they were going, Colonel Mailliot in particular, and spy on them.

From the parapet Sharpe tapped tbe 60th's captain on the shoulder and pointed Frederickson to the group of red-clad riders heading east, towards a ridge. Both men watched as another, a lone figure, hied their horse to catch them.

"It looks like you were right, Richard," Captain Frederickson sighed. Then he turned back to the organisation of the men.

88888888

An hour after leaving the fort and Tom arrived at an encampment lit with burning torches with a bonfire in the centre surrounded by white canvases.

She slowed her horse about twenty feet from where the five riders had dismounted, the trees offering cover, its breath steaming in the night.

The five men had gathered around a central person, who had been waiting for them. Tom dropped from the horse's saddle, tying the rein to the tree, then patting its flank. She crouched low as she crept forward, the voices getting louder, smoke from the fire wrapping around them.

The voices were French and Spanish, talking rapidly, punctuated with laughter from the man in the centre of the five. Even if she did understand the languages they were speaking far too fast.

She took a few steps forward, yo get a better view. There were the two ruffians who had been in the chariot, who had jumped out and attacked three of the tents with the women inside. There was the tall man, who had murdered Anna Schmidt and her baby. There was the shorter one, who Tom had shot at.

And there was Colonel Mailliot, who had ridden into camp, proud and tall, who had drawn the chatiot, who had maimed and terrified, who would have murdered Ramona Harper and her baby had Tom not intervened.  
The men continued to talk, but the volume increased, and they began to argue. Arguing about the loss of the fort, no doubt, Tom thought, as one of the men pushed the other, the second going sprawling onto the ground. Mailliot seemed to be arguing with the second man too, standing over him, shouting.

And then the smaller man stalked over to one of the tents, bringing back a tall, dark-haired man by the shoulder and pushed in the centre of the group. The man was bound at the hand, Tom could see, and Mailliot began shouting at him.

"Mailliot, je vous railiment!" he shouted in the man. "Mailliot!"

Tom frowned. Colonel Mailliot, who had come from the fort, was not this man. She looked between the two - they did look similar. But the Mailliot she knew, or she thought she knew, who had attacked the camp, who she had followed was not the same men on the floor, being beaten up in turn by the red-coated riders. That Mailliot had been the officer organising gun supplies, and been in the meeting with General Calvert. Who she had shot.

Her eyes drifted to his shoulder. She had caused that injury. But if he was Mailliot, who was the man who had raided the camp?

Mailliot, the man on the ground , was hauled up onto his feet, and the argument continued. It seemed like this Mailliot was refusing to do something, his dark brown head of hair shook in refusal. The man who had dragged him over, who was stabbing his finger at him, was short and squat with round eye glsses, striped cravat and waistcoat.

"Non!" Mailliot was protesting. "Non! Absolutmont!" Then, Mailliot said something in French which sounded equally non-complicit.

And then the short, bespeckled man withdrew his gun and, standing in front of Mailliot, shot him in the chest. Tom gasped. The man slumped down.

Tom waited for the men to begin to talk again, her eyes on Mailliot. He was French, defending the fort. But he wasn't a faux-redcoat.

She took a few more shuffling steps forward through the tree-stubble. And then some words, this time words she could understand, drifted to her ears. The well-dressed, short man, who had shot Colonel Mailliot was standing over his body, talking words which were English.

"Mailliot. Je est mort! You - are - dead!"

He began to laugh, looking around at the redcoated men, who began to join in, the man Tom had mistaken for Mailliot kicking out at the colonel.

Then, they stalked off, still laughing, leaving the dead man in the dirt.

When she was sure the men had gone, Tom went over to him. Smoke coiled around the camp and around him, as if to take his spirit.

He had been protesting against them, refusing to do something. Tom stooped, to look at his face. It was handsome, proud. He had been vehement about doing his job. But, maybe, he had refused to join in with the plot to raid as a redcoat, pretending to be British.

Perhaps he had been a hostage? If so, she may have aided his demise by shooting him.

Voices at the back of the encampment caused Tom to stand back up. She scuttled back into the shadows as the man who had argued with Mailliot stepped back out, standing over his body before beckoning over to two men, who seized his body.

And then, he spoke. In English.

"Make it known that Colonel Henri Mailliot was murdered this night by Major Richard Sharpe, in a cowardly act to save his own life."

A man, who had followed the smaller man, stood next to him, paper in hand. It looked to Tom as if he was writing. He looked up when he had finished.

"Major Richard Sharpe?" he asked. Tom blinked. So, the man who had murdered this Mailliot, before her very eyes, Colonel Henri Mailliot, was blaming Major Sharpe? She tried to not to breathe as she listened.

"Oui?"

"Si, Senior Ducos," the man replied.

"Major Ducos," corrected the short man. Tom ducked flat as she trembled a little.

Ducos? That name that had been on the lips of those who they had captured? The name that had taken them away from the rifkes' camp?

And he was wanting it to be known that Mailliot's murder was done by Sharpe.

She did not care about how much noise she made in her egress, breaking sticks, the swishing of the leather as she freed the horse. A shot was fired in her direction as she hyed the horse on.

But Tom didn't care. She had valuable information that she needed to tell, and that was worth all.  



	7. An Unfit Hearing

7.  
The rifles regiment had been the crucial factor in winning control of the fort, so Colonel Grant of the South Essex had told them. Once the French had been secured as prisoners and Grant's light and heavy divisions had taken possession of one of Napoleon's strategic posts the 95ths and 60ths had been invited to stay. Brandy and good food were in the offing so, without much deliberation, Major Sharpe agreed that they should overnight at the fort before returning to camp.

Far from his mind had been the information from the traitor Roberta, who had shown her true colours that night by fleeing with some escaping French, and it was only when they had got to camp, destroyed and deserted as it had been, that her words were made real to him.

She had done this, while they had been away; she had let in these redcoated men, she killed or allowed to be killed some of the women to make it look like a real ambush, then she had come after them.

These were the words that Sharpe had spoken to Captain Frederickson several hours later, when the camp had been rebuilt and the men disposed to tidying, mending, cleaning. Throughout, Frederickson looked impassive, thoughtful.

"And, where are the women?" Sharpe said to himself as he inspected the work which was being done. It was at that point a wail went up. Anders Schmidt had found the bodies of his wife and child.

"Where are the women?" he asked aloud, before turning to one of the 95th. "Look, Perkins, lolk for the women, look for their bodies, and when you have looked, if you find nothing, look again."

Harris had gone with Perkins and a full two hours later they returned.

"Not here, sir," Harris reported. Sharpe nodded, grimly.

"As I suspected..."

"Yes, sir?"

"That traitorous woman. Roberta Haycock, Harris," then, ignoring Matt Harris's look of shock at his commander's description of his friend shouted it to the heavens, to the camp, that Roberta Haycock, who they had known as Tom Wright, had caused this, caused it deliberately and she was even more traitorous than her father.

He might have said more but Frederickson touched him gently on tbe arm. But the knowledge had been shared and that could not be undone. The doleful camp continued with their work to med the camp and Perkins and Harris were sent once more to search for tge women.

88888888

It was nearly morning when Tom had finally got within sight of the camp. When she had got as far as she dared, and chanced upon a stream which would become the river by which they were camped, only then did she dismount and let the horse rest.

She too rested, the night being fine to sleep out of doors and the summer's early morning rays crept fingerlike over the horizon and gently caressed her cheeks.

Tom re-mounted the horse and trotted gently now, still exhausted from the battle and ride to Ducos's camp and her mind drifted to the welcone she would receive when she got back to camp.

She had told Sharpe about the jacket already, and had warned him about the attack. She now had information about Ducos and the camp, and the man's planned discreditation of the major's name for the murder that he himself had committed.

So it was with utter shock that, when she called out to her old comrades as she entered the rifles' encampment that they raised their loadef rifles and drew on their bayonets.

Tom wearily showed hers, it was meant as a show of identification, but started when the rifles clicked, and those bearing them gathered in front of her to prevent her progress. Tom sighed and cocked hers too.

"I need to see the major," she said, noticing Harris, whose face was not one of friendly welcome.

"You'll get none here!" growled Harry Heap, a veteran 60th, rivalling Dan Hagman in years. "Not you, traitor-woman!"

"No! No!" they all began to shout together, jeering at Tom and crowding around the horse, which whinnied through fright. Tom felt her heart beat into her neck and mouth. What was happening? Why were they being so hostile?

A shot was fired from the crowd of riflemen, which was now more resembling a mob and, just as Tom was beginning to think they were going to attack her Harris shouldered his way forward and pulled her off the horse, gripping her arm.

"Come with me!" he instructed Tom, loud enough for everyone to hear, waving his rifle at anyone who was now pointing loaded rifles at her.

Sharpe was asleep in the officers' tent, which had been reassembled, like he rest of them but to Tom did not seem quite right, poles of different sizes made the roof slope and the fabric at the side was torn. She made to say sonething but Matthew shook her hard by the arm. He then crossed over to the sleeping major and woke him up.

"Harris?" he said, half sleepily, half abruptly. "This had better be good." Matt Harris did not answer. Instead, he thruat Tom towards him.

'"Roberta?!" he shouted, pulling himself up off the blankets which had been fashioned into a makeshift bed, bearing down on Tom.

"I need to speak to you, Major," Tom began, excitement at the telling in her mind. They would be able do something" stop the attacks, maybe even stop Ducos. "It's about - " but Sharpe interrupted her, slapping down the rifle in her hands and stalking over to her.

"Well, I am astonished," said Sharpe, contemptuously. "You have the gall to came back here after what you did?" Tom felt her eyes widen

"What I did?"

"Don't play the innocent with me, woman, cos it won't wash." He grabbed her by both shoulders and shook her hard. "The attack! The women! Where are they, then?

"They haven't come back?" asked Tom, in astonishment, fear now beginning to spread in her mind.

"No, they damned well haven't!" exclaimed Sharpe, harshly. "But, can the dead rise up, eh?"

"Dead? But, they - " But again he cut her off.

"Now you've come to protest your innocence after you let the enemy in here to do this? Well, I'll tell you if they did come back, at least that might be one thing. Stop you from swinging at any rate." Tom's face froze, its features fixed. Swinging?

"Hanging?"

"Aye," shot back the Major, pushing her away. "Where are they, then?"

"I sent them up the river. I know there's a cave up on the bank, about a hundred yards up on the right."

"Well, that's a mercy," he replied, quieter now. "Harris? Go there. Take Perkins with you. Harris saluted and was gone.

"Where - " she began. But at thst moment the tent was pushed aside. In strode Harper, towering like a cliff, as if seabirds and storms were flying about him.

When he saw Tom he strode over to her and siezed her by the red jacket, which he tore off, throwing it onto the floor, grabbed the dress his wife had once given to her, holding her from the ground.

Tom's protesting arms were useless as the seargeant bellowed into her face, "Where is my wife?!" And, when she couldn't answer, for the strength of the grip, added, "I'll break your treacherous little neck for you, so help me I will!"

"Put her down, Pat," groaned Sharpe, defeated. "The women are in a cave up-river. They're safe. She sent 'em there," he added, when the grip on Tom began to send her purple. She shook her head when Harper reluctantly let go his hands from Tom's throat. She crumpled onto the ground.

"Why did you flee, eh?" asked Sharpe, staring at her.

"Those men," she panted, "they attacked the camp. I tried to stop them, but there was too many of them. They attacked the women; they killed Mrs Schmidt. They left, and I shot one of them. I took his horse and followed them."

"Or," said Sharpe. "You planned the attack to go with 'em, to the fort."

"I fought!" insisted Tom. "You saw me! At the fort!"

"I saw you ride with 'em."

"They have a crate of red jackets; they are the same as this one; the same as the one I showed you."

"I told you to wait." Tom hung her head.

"Yes. Then, I saw them getting away. I knew I had to find out why. I followed a colonel who drove a chariot here. His name was Mailliot. I was trying to shoot him for it.

"I hid, I heard General Calvert talking about something. But, they spoke in French and Spanish; I couldn't understand what they said. Mailliot escaped, with the others. But, it wasn't the same man. The man they called Mailliot who raided here was not Calvert's Mailliot. When I followed them, I saw the Mailliot from the fort, Henri Mailliot - "

"All this is very interesting - " cut in Sharpe, coldly. "I say, that you were sent here to tell this pretty tale to cover up what you did here - "

"Henri Mailliot was murdered by a Major Ducis, sir," interrupted Tom, insistently, ignoring Sharpe's assertions. "I saw him. And I heard him plotting something. He said that "everyone should know that Henri Mailliot was murdered by Richard Sharpe."

"And how the hell did you know he said that, if you don't speak French or Spanish, eh?" roared Harper, exultant at having found a weakness in her argument.

"Aye," replied Sharpe, bitterly, "'tis what I knew, Pat," he said.

"Because, he said it in English," Tom replied. "He had a scribe write it down. But, if you don't believe me, I cannot help that. I'll go," she added.

"You step out there and nowt I say will stop those men from killing yer," said Sharpe. "They know what you are and who yer father is. Best stay here and confess the truth to me, here and now."

"That is the truth," Tom replied, hotly. "Major Ducos seemed to be asking Colonel Mailliot to do something for him, something about gold. When he refused to do what had been asked of him, Ducos shot him in the chest. He said, "Make it known that Colonel Henri Mailliot was murdered by Makor Richard Sharpe in a cowardly act to save his own life."

Sharpe looked at Harper. Clearly Ducos meant something far deeper to him than an enemy name, Tom thought.

"And you swear this? " He picked the jacket that Harper had torn from her up from the floor."

"They wore those; there were French, Spanish, all under the comnand of Ducos."

"Ducos," repeated Sharpe, sullenly, then shot her a look. "The Frenchman who instructs you?"

"No sir! I have never seen him before last night."

"And these redcoats were at the fort?"

"Yes," nodded Tom.

"And you thought you'd wait around there? It doesn't look good, girl."

"I meant to kill him, sir," Tom replied. "I had to do something when the South Essex came."

"Yer saved Captain Frederickson's life, summat I am sure he is grateful of," Sharpe muttered. "You joined in the attack. The 60th owe you summat, at least. Mebbe me, too."

My men, Tom thought to herself, my comrades. The 60th. A year she had spent with them and now, within days, the life she knew was over. Her heart began to beat so much she could feel it in her ears.

"Harper, get the Provost Marshal; Roberta Haycock."

"Yes, sir," growled Harper, staring at her, coldly. "Let it be known that she is under my protection until this matter is resolved."

When PM Espley arrived Tom went with him. Sharpe was to remain in the officer's tent and she in his. Tom had thought she would be in the arrest tent but the major said that it would be seen that he presumed her guilty of treachery to the French, and he wanted evidence to that effect.

Tom said that he would never find any, for there was none and at that, Sharpe pushed her out into the encampment

At once, the men outside raised their rifles, but there were not as many as had confronted her when she had arrived, Tom noticed. But, to her sadness, they were all 60th.

When one of them cocked what could only be a loaded rifle Sharpe shouted at them all.

"Listen to me: this matter is under investigation by me, no man will lay a hand on this person. The women are said to be safe; Harris and Perkins are on their way to get 'em."

Then, Sharpe took Tom by the shoulder of Ramona's now ruined dress and led her firmly towards his own tent. They passed by Anna Schmidt's body, and her little child, who had been placed in her arms. Tom recoiled. She couldn't save the woman, she told herself; she had been firing at the men on the chariot, at the man they had named Mailliot. But that line of logic did not make her feel any better.

"In yer go," growled Sharpe. "The Provost Marshal will guard yer, have no fear."

And, as he turned, Tom was sure he muttered under his breath the name, "Ducos".  



	8. Justice

8.  
It was evening now. All afternoon, following Major Sharpe's detainment of her under close guard, she had heard the riflemen going about their duties. All afternoon, instead of, by rights, being there, doing her share, she had watched Espley's shadow changed as the sun moved until now the shadow was no more.

They thought her a traitor, she knew. Was it because she was a woman, then? Did they think she had help in maintaining a cover? Or that the cover was an intrigue to infiltrate the army? All ideas sounded preposterous to her. Yet, if the major believed her, others might. She fought out the image of the captain. For the captain to believe it would be too much to bear.

But, of course, coupled with the open knowledge that she was born of John Haycock, and that the women were still missing Tom could understand the feeling of anger and betrayal.

Tom closed her eyes. The women would be back - she had told Harris where they had gone. Major Sharpe could find out about Ducos. It was a terrible accusation, to be called out for cowardice, even by the enemy. And to have a murder attached to his name?

Tom closed her eyes and dreamed of morning.

88888888

Hands. Hands grabbing. Hands pulling and tearing and lifting.

Around her hands, and faces, too. And shouts, all at once, that Tom could not discern.

She was no longer in the major's tent; there was no longer canvas between her and the Provost Marshal. Instead the hands and voices and faces belonged to those she was once fellowed with.

It was dark; Tom struggled, but she was held fast, in tbe arms of Paget and Taylor, who, with a dozen or so 60ths, were dragging her through the clearing and into the copse of trees. When they had got where they were going, they dropped her to the floor.

Tom got up, but was pulled by the hair to the ground. She leapt forward, but couldn't effect much of an attack.

"What?" She cried. "Why?"

She felt her hair released and her head slumped. With effort, Tom got to her knees, and then to her feet. She looked around in the twilight at the faces of those who had abducted her, who had brought her out here. For what?

But no-one answered. Instead, the men of the 60th turned their rifles upright and beat a rhythm on the dry earth.

Then a man stepped forward, face crumpled, and eyes weary. Anders Schmidt pushed his way forward.

He did not shout at her, which might have been better, instead his words were quiet, anguish-filled. Bitter. Tom tried to move but a hand gripped her hair again. Anders moved so far forward that he became out of focus. Tom blinked, and swallowed.

"So," Schmidt began, curling his words into her face. "John Haycock's brat..."

...do you know what your father did?" asked another voice, behind Schmidt. Neuchterlein, a broad-shouldered blonde-haired man replaced Schmidt, glarimg at her.

"Your father destroyed regiments in the colonies; Leroy, god rest his soul, of South Carolina, lost thirteen squadrons. He cut off food supplies to the companies - to us, to the 62nd. To the 75th he dammed the river at Georgetown, to hasten their thirst, and when they gave out, one by one, arms up, white cloths on fists. Do you know what happened next?" he snarled. Tom shook her head, her heart beating fast now, in her neck, on her ears.

"'e shot em, like rats. Those 'e missed 'e let the Indians scalp, cut their guts out - " Neuchterlein grabbed at Tom's abdomen, " - and their private parts off." He looked down, and sneered.

"And the 65th company - trapped 'em in tbe sand; and the Atlantic drowned 'em as tbe tide came in." He grinned, as tbe horror of such an occurrence played as fear across Tom's face.

"When the 40th, who were pleased at their victory at Williamsburg, the Indians got them with poison arrows. I see'd it, me and Schmidt, and Bagot, and Taylor - " those men he'd name-checked grunted in agreement, " - they was there, turnin' in pain - took hours to die." He pushed her back, so she landed awkwardky onto the ground. The men stood in a circle around her. This time, when she tried to get up, she was kicked down, in tbe kidneys, in tje ribs.

"We doesn't care that you are a girl - you let that happen to our women. You did that to us." Neuchterlein drew back his leg and kicked her in the stomach.

Hadn't the women come back, she wanted to ask, hadn't Matt Harris found them? But her lungs were breathless and she could hardly get in enough air to stand, let alone talk. But, finally, she did and she turned on Neuchterlein, the biggest of her aggressors.

"What is it to be then?" Tom demanded as they tore at her clothes. "Rape?" Be prepared, she told herself. There would be a chink, a mistake, they were drunk, and she would take the chance when it came.

"No-one would touch you!" mocked Taylor, laughing.

"You 'eard what the major said," came a voice on the outside of the group. "A hanging offence. I say, hoist a rope boys."

And, as horror began to fill Tom's mind, arms gripped her as a cheer of assent went up. But there was nothing to be done. Already Tom could feel the tightening in her throat even though the rope was slack. Even though she had done nothing wrong. She closed her eyes, all fight gone from her. She felt tears, but she woukd not cry.

A voice near her ear declared, "to the traitor 's brat. May we have justice!"

"No!" came a voice, clear and strong. "No. Unhand that person." Captain Frederickson stepped into the shaft of moonlight. The men stopped. But they did not release her from the rope.

"You of all people should agree with what we are doing, sir. Think about what John Haycock did to you. We was there, sir. Don't you recall the siege at Jamestown?"

"I try not to," replied Frederickson, reaching up with his hand to Schmidt's face as the soldier spoke. The man shrank back, but Neuchterlein stepped defiantly beside him. Tom watched as the captain spoke to his company.

"Though I can recall it, every moment. But what is she, to that? What about your fathers, eh? Drinks? Women beaters? Scoundrels? Debtors? Thieves? Do their crimes condemn your necks?"

"We would say so after what the major said tonight."

"She did not do this," Frederickson declared. "The women, your women have returned; Harris found them safe where she said they would be. They say the same." He looking up for a moment to Tom, his eye shimmering next to his dim, solid, false one, then jerked his head back to his men.

"Without her bravery, her wit," he found himself saying, "without her having the sense to take a rifle and use it, to tell the women where to go for safety, then they, and your children, would have been murdered like Private Schmidt's wife and son. She sent the women off to a place of safety. She went after all eight of those men then came after us to warn us."

There was silence, as the men digested their commander's words. Tom closed her eyes. The captain had vouched for her. She was not to be hanged.

"Like hell!" A voice rang clear through the men. Frederickson turned to the voice, his eye searching for the owner.

"The French officer confirms it. So you will let her down, allow her to - "

But the captain was not allowed to finish. There was a surge towards Tom, who was standing on a branch of the tree, her legs held by two of the 60th.

Lightning-quick, the captain levelled his rifle, and fired into the air. Some of the men scattered. Tom felt a hand on her back, recognised the growl of the man who pushed her as the rope tightened around her neck. But then almost immediately, it slackened again. Tom fell heavily to the floor.

William Frederickson had shot down the rope and was striding over to Tom. She closed her eyes, then jerked them open as she felt hands, swift, deft hands loosening the noose and gathering her into his arms.

"All is well, Lieblein," she heard Frederickson say quietly, by her ear.

"Get back to camp, all of you!" demanded the captain, shortly. "You will, all of you, be lucky if you don't find yourselves up on a charge of murder.

"That's right," came another voice. Tom craned his neck into the gloom. But the voice could only be one man's.

"Take her back to my tent, Harris, and for God's sake, you stay with her, this time, for pity's sake. And get Ramona Harper."

He watched as Frederickson let Tom down to her feet, almost reluctantly, Harris taking her arm around his shoulders and walking with her, slowly amd carefully.

Then, to the stragglers of the 60th, he bellowed, "Get back to camp, or there will be bloody murder tonight."  
88888888

"It is quite a thing, Richard." Major Munroe pushed the document he had been instructed to deliver to Sharpe across the makeshift table of the 95th's camp officers' table. Ge watched as the major read the words, eyes open in disbelief.

"The "Articles of Peace" - no more war," Munroe continued, as if declaring that was enough of an explanation, nodding at his valet, who poured more whisky for the major, and he proffered the bottle to Sharpe, who nodded.

"Buonaparte was captured yesterday," continued Munroe, "the war officially ended at midday yesterday. Sorry we were unable to find you."

"I was carrying out my orders last night."

"Action that could now be deemed as attacks on allies."

"The French are our allies? "

"Lamentably," nodded the major, taking a sip of the amber spirit. "Ahh, nothing better than Jura." He leaned forwards, towards Richard. "There is talk, well, more than talk, of an attack, gold being captured."

"Aye?"

"Aye. The gold was being kept at the fort that the South Essex took, that you took. It is rumoured - " another sip - "it is being rumoured," he emphasised, "that you have that gold, Richard, that you shot a colonel in your escape to save your own skin."

"That's a damnable lie, sir!" Exclaimed Sharpe, scraping back his chair. "I have no gold; I murdered no colonel, unless he was killed in part of the raid."

"The awkward thing, Richard, is that the French have an eyewitness to this killing. Now we are at peace, they want answers."

"Aye?"

"There has been reports that you have it."

"I have the gold?" stormed Sharpe, springing to his feet. "I don't know of any gold! Look around you, major. When we were off, carrying out Wellington's orders our camp was attacked."

"Indeed."

"There is no French gold here, or anywhere!"

"That is damnably awkward, Richard, because it is the personal treasure of Buonaparte hinself. The republic claim it on behalf of France and they believe you have it."

"There will be a trial, Richard, and I do not believe it will come out very well in your favour."

"And the murder?"

"A colonel by the name of Colonel - "

But Munroe needn't have said it. Tom Wright had already told him. Henri Mailliot. And he hadn't listened.

88888888

"It would seem we did her a disservice, then," concluded William Frederickson, when Sharpe told him of Munroe's visit. "She told you faithfully."

"And so now, I have it from two sources that I am a coward, thief and murderer."

"But you are not," replied Frederickson, evenly. "I shall represent you, legally, should you wish it."

"Get her out of here, William," sighed Sharpe, looking at his boots. "A Polly Perks is nothing but trouble. Put her on a boat back to England, or bettet yet, South Carolina."

"Damn it Richard, she saved them after all, and took on those devils, and at the fort too. Saved some of the lives of the men who tried to hang her. She is your only witness to the murder of Mailliot - she may well have saved your life too."

"Aye." Sharpe got to his feet. "Remind me, William, you told me she promised she would never would put on a rifles unifirm, and there she was, with us at the fort. But - " he mused, dashing his fist to the ground, "she was never wearing rifles uniform - she went after the men who attacked them here. She must have been telling the truth."

"You still doubted that? Those men that raided, who you believed to be her to be in league with?"

"Those men have implicated me in something; Ducos has implicated me in something."

"She is your only witness against the murder of this Mailliot, which is now in the reckoning, because we were officially at peace when he was killed. What say you now, Richard? What else must she do to prove she is not John Haycock."

"She must go." Sharpe shook his head.

"Another company, you mean?"

"No, rumours fly faster than the wind in the army - her parentage would be known before she had even got there. What?" asked Sharpe, as he saw Frederickson's face.

"She is a woman and they attempted bloody murder."

"Tomorrow. We will sort this tomorrow."

88888888

"No-one is allowed to go in or out, Captain Frederickson." The PMs were not around Sharpes tent any longer. Ramona had taken her through there, staggering and feeble, and had stayed with Matthew Harris that night.

And the next morning, Harris had both escorted her to the river, and then back to the major's tent, to foid brought for her by Mrs Harper. Clean, and fed. Needs all satisfied.

Almost.

She had asked Harris to leave, and he had done, reluctantly. He took the place of PM Taylor, standing guard.

As the day wore on, Tom almost called him back in, for her thoughts were very black indeed: they had hanged her, her regiment had, on the suspicion she was a spy, on the suspicion she was a traitor. On the true fact that she was her father's daughter.

Daylight had gone, and so had Harris; his boots had been replaced by those of Espley. Tom closed her eyes again. What was she to do now? She wasn't wanted here, and yet, she was not allowed to go.

Night was well set in when she heard PM Espley say, "No-one is allowed to go in or out, Captain Frederickson."

But, the canvas moved aside in any case, and the PM called, "Miss Haycock, Captain Frederickson of the 62nd wishes to discuss with you a matter of -"

"Thank you," Frederickson interrupted but, instead of entering, "Miss Haycock, I trust I do not disturb you in prayer, or in sleep?"

"No, sir," Tom replied, bristling at her name, and she got to her feet. "Do come in."

"How are you? How is your neck?" She looked his impassive, features, delivering the facts, doing the right thing as a commander: concern for the wellbeing of a member of his regiment.

"I will live, thanks to you," Tom replied, feeling conscious that the pain she had felt was on display. She reached for the injury.

"And I will live thanks to you," he added. When Tom said nothing, he added, "Major Sharpe saw you."

"I spoke to him," replied Tom, standing up. "And he believes me to be a spy, sir. He told the men."

"Wouldn't you, in his shoes?"

Tom said nothing. Maybe she would have. Maybe she would have jumped further to conclusions than he had. Maybe, if Sharpe had thought like her, she would now be dead.

"I knew your father," Frederickson continued, "before he changed his loyalties. Brave, loyal, fighting for his beliefs...beliefs which caused me to look like I do now. Thirty thousand tonnes of white-hot, burning metal descending onto our heads. Most who went in with us were never found, the pieces were just too small."

Tom looked up. The stories the men told the night before, in grief, in despair, which they were to take out on her; Frederickson's words tonight, given to her as a kind of confession. If she could be rid of the name Haycock, the part of her that was her father - if that part of her could have hanged last night, she would have let it.

"When he left," Tom told Frederickson, still looking down, "I was very young, I could barely remember, but I remember us leaving our house and my mother crying, making me promise never to be a girl." She looked up, looked at her captain, her own confession spilling from her lips.

"So I became a boy instead, and when I was old enough to understand I knew, I knew I must fight for my country."

"And you came to the army and had the audacity to fight?" demanded the captain, fiercely. "You think yourself better than you are?"

Tom said nothing, but turned away, feeling the bite of his words. Of course he felt embarrased - what commander wouldn't? For the first time since she took the shilling she felt shame for joining.

"You have skill," Frederickson continued, his face growing redder as he shouted, "you fought alone at the chateau; you forced General Calvert to surrender. But your presence is an abhorrence to order and discipline - you must see that." He waited for Tom to turn back round, to look at him.

When she did not, he added, "especially now they know you are a female. Soldiers can only endure so much; they may risk their lives for you, attack you, segregate you, desire you."

Only if they know I am a girl, thought Tom, feeling wretched, forcing herself to look at the man she felt so much respect for who, it was clear, loathed her.

"Napoleon has fled; the French are our allies now. And an accusation of murder and treachery has been levelled at Major Sharpe. I have come to ask - on his behalf - if you would, for the time being, stay with us, for your safety, in return help you can give us. It would atone a great deal for your lie."

Tom felt herself sigh. So the truth had come out, and Ducos's lie that Major Sharpe was behind Malliot's murder had emerged.

"I plan to go to America, sir. I would be able to be myself far better." She must keep her resolve. If her presence was abhorrent, she must take care to armour her feelings against sentiment. However, the Major had indeed treated her well, considering the circumstances.

She watched as Frederickson shifted between feet, clearly asking a favour of her was difficult, and the surge of emotion that she felt for the captain must be compressed to nothing.

"I am asking if you will stay, child, just for a few short weeks. I owe you my life. He may well owe you his. He would ask you this himself but he is now under close guard for the murder of Colonel Mailliot, and may only speak to me. Major Munroe is acting commander now."

"That's terrible," she managed.

"He has to have his name name to clear and he needs evidence. I am asking you, will you stay til his trial and bear witness?"  
"You wish me to tell them I am Roberta Haycock?" demanded Tom. "That name is cursed to me."

"We will vouchsafe that you are Tom Wright," Feederickson replied, stiffly. "Just tell them what you know."

He fell silent, and Tom realised he was inspecting her neck.

"I am ashamed they are my men, that they did this to you," he said, his voice low. "They are to be punished."

"No, sir. Not on my account."

"Yes, Miss Haycock. "They attempted to murder a British citizen. I have to be tough, it is most unfortunate. Now," he continued, looking at her intently, "who was it who pushed you, child?"

"I cannot say, for I could not tell," lied Tom. "It was dark; there was much confusion. I could not discern much In that case, a collective action means a collective punishment I trust you are being looked after?"

"Ramona," listed Tom, "Gisel Auger, Emma Gough... they've all come to see me."

"Well, I do need an answer," Frederickson cutting her off and taking a step towards the exit, "in the case of Major Sharpe. I will come by to-"

"Please, sir," said Tom, looking at her former commander. "I am so very sorry, about leaving, about enlisting, about my father - " she looked at his face, then wished she hadn't: Frederickson turned away, a proud man so disfigured, his features twisting because of her.

"I am sorry about lying to remain in the army, to be under your command. Please, please believe me, sir." Because William Frederickson thinking well of her was something that she now realised she prized very highly indeed.

"You cannot remain in the British Army you know that?"

"I will go, I will leave. Now. Tonight. You simply have to say I was killed in action. If I cannot stay in the army then Major Sharpe has no jurisduliction over me."

"I ask you for the sake of honour to delay on his behalf, " replied Frederickson. "That Major Ducos has murdered one of our allies for his own gain and implicated the major in the process is abhorrent. Sharpe shall hang for no crime."

"Like I nearly did," Tom said, putting her hand to her painful nech and shoulder. Her face was bruised where she had been hanged.

Then, unexpectedly, the captain stepped forward, looking into her eyes as he put his hand to her face. The warmth of his fingers flushed her cheek. Tom was glad it was dark enough that the captain could not see her properly. She shivered.

"Yes, it must hurt, lieblein," he said, interpreting her shudder as pain and withdrew his hand. "I regret I could not have trained my men better. They must be severely punished, Roberta," he reiterated.

"But sir - "

"No. I insist. They must. They must see their actions are wholly wrong. You understand the army, yes? Discipline is all."

Tom nodded. She understood. Weak leadership resulted in chaos. They would be punished, those who had been there, not to deter them, but to deter others.

"It will be your choice, as to what the punishment should be, Miss Haycock, for it was you who was wronged." Tom nodded, feeling herself shake. He was angry with her, Tom knew, and his only motivation was to keep her there because of Major Sharpe.

"I will stay and I will give evidence for Major Sharpe," Tom confirmed and, as the words that the captain wanted to hear were spoken, Frederickson smiled his crooked smile, the first he had given her since she had outshot Cooper, his face twisting upwards to compensate fir his lack of jawbone.

"Good. Good girl."

"But once it is over, I will be free to find another division."

"As Thomas Wright?"

"Indeed. In the former colonies I will be able to live as I wish. I cannot stay, Captain Frederickson. The army is what I know. I fight for a living."

"Very good, then," nodded the captain, his face returning to that of disdain. Tom made to salute but the captain turned, pushed asode the canvas, and was gone.

Tom sat down on the bed roll and buried her head in his lap, hating that the encounter was causing her to cry. She bit her lip so she would not make any sound.

When she had finished sobbing her and her mind was fully back under her control the first thoughts that Tom thought were about leaving, how and when.

For I cannot stay, Captain Frederickson, she thought to herself, as his face filled her mind. Because of you I cannot stay.

88888888

News spread that Sharpe and Frederickson had gone shortly before Wellington, with Major Munroe had arrived to administer the camp. They were now not needed for war, but were to remain there until Sharpe's trial was over.

Far from idleness, however, Sergeants Harper and Rossler were instructing the men to clean, tidy, wash, fetch and cook, and altogether look like what they weren't.

News too, had filtered around that Sharpe's wife has left him and cleared out all his money. Tom felt sorry for him, for that, for he was a decent officer, and did not deserve that, as well as a trial.

The men, led by Neuchterlein and Schmidt had come the very morning of Sharpe and Frederickson's departure demanding of her an audience. There had already been a scuffle between them and the 95th, who had been taking it in turns to guard Tom, but she had come out, and heard what they had to say.

It had cleared the air, between them all. But what was equally clear was that she was no longer their comrade Tom Wright.

So, to pass the time, she reappeared, rejoined the women and assisted with the camp chores, minded the children, cooked, fetched, cleaned. Tom had even overheard, to her amusement, a middle-aged major ask Harris about her, to which she was surprised to hear Harris refer to her as his sister.

"Well, in that case, I would like to have your sister to dinner," Major Hogan, and he raised his hat to Tom, when she looked in their direction.

Tom could not continue to reside in Major Sharpe's tent. A section had been added next to the Harpers' tent and Tom gladly called this home.

She had even been approached by Anders Schmidt, who thanked her for her work on the night of the attack.

"You did more than anyone could do under the circumstances. "You did what you could for Anna and baby Thomas. Did you know we named him after you? We have always been impressed with your skill, even more so that you are a girl."

"I am nothing but of the child of a soldier, doing my duty,' Tom answered, modestly. And then, she told Schmidt of the punishment they were to receive, and that he should bring every last one of those involved to her.

For fining them, and killing them would bring hardship on their families, Tom reasoned. So, her punishment would be an apology, in front of them all, their families, the 95th, one by one.

At first, Tom believed that none would do this, for it would, in effect, be an admission of guilt. But, having heard Schmidt's humble words, each and every man of the 60th, even those not there that night, spoke in turn words of regret to her, and she in turn thanked them, telling her former company that she was pleased to see an end to the matter.

Then, a week after Hogan had arrived, Harris hustled Tom to one side to tell her the news that Sharpe had gone to Mailliot's sister, looking for answers about the French gold.

"When he returns, you will give evidence, as you promised?"

"Of course, yes," nodded Tom. "They are coming back soon? With the gold?"

"No. He he's not got the gold. But he knows where it is. What?" Harris asked, when he saw Tom's face light up. Then he realised why she was smiling.

"They're coming home " Tom repeated, with joy. "The major, and Captain Frederickson. I will see the captain again."

Her meaning was not lost on Matt, who immediately grinned back. "You...you...the captain?"

Tom said nothing, but her face brightened. She knew he hated her for what she had done, but the thought of seeing the captain again had caused the fluttering in the lower part of her stomach to become more intense. Her presence was no more than a conduit to secure Sharpe's innocence. She was no longer a rifleman, she was a digrace in his eyes. And that made her.

"He is dear to me," she concluded, laconically. "He is the best commander I have ever had," she clarified.

But, on hearing Tom's words Harris's face fell.

"Oh, Tom," he continued, mournfully, touching her shoulder. And he told her how Frederickson had accompanied Sharpe to the hone of Henri Mailliot in order to secure the testimony of his sister and that for this the captain had bravely given his life.

"Captain Frederickson is dead," Harris confirmed.

It took some time for the understanding of what Matt was saying to her. When she did, she felt her knees crumple. Matt caught her, and held her.

Then, so am I, thought Tom, as she cried the tears which would not stop for days, soaking through Harris's green jacket. So am I. 


	9. Exoneration

9.  
It was with the first rays of light that Tom Wright, with her sparse belongings tied in her blanket, made her weary way north.

It was running, she was fully aware of that. But how could you desert when you were not now a soldier?

Her status was ambiguous, but her heart told her it was wrong. America. She could go there; she had money for the passage, she had saved her wages, saved her uniforms, so she never had to buy jackets anew.

Stepping out through the French woodland her mind drifted to Major Sharpe, to whom she had written a letter and had left it in the cooking pot in the mess tent. It would be found, no doubt, and passed on.

And so, that morning, four days after the surrender of the French Republic, five after her near hanging by her former comrades, Thomas Wright left the camp of the 60th and 95th rifles battalions.

Her departure had not gone unnoticed, however. Along with his numerous duties, Matt Harris had taken it upon himself to watch Tom Wright and had seen her push aside the canvas attached to the Harpers' tent.

He had debated with himself as to whether he should go after her or not, instead, turning to Major Sharpe, who had appeared the previous night and was now under close arrest. It took Harris some time to allow Nairn to speak to Sharpe, and he believed that he had only been granted an audience because he recognised Harris to be Tom's brother.

He could understand why. For days Tom had not eaten, nor slept, nor worked. Two days ago, he had asked Ramona to speak too, but Tom had just cried into the woman's arms.

Sharpe looked terrible, and, before Harris could explain that Tom had gone, the major had thrust a piece of paper into his hands.

"She has gone, then?" Harris nodded.

"Then damn well get her back for me, Matthew Harris. The trial will not accept a note, however finely written."

Harris caught up with Tom five miles north of Tolouse. At first, the girl made to run, but the happiness and light had gone out of her face and her body seemed quite exhausted.

"I am leaving, Matt," Tom said, when he eventually caught up with her. "But I will stand by my letter. Major Sharpe is an honourable man; he cannot be blamed for a murder."

"They will only accept your word if you are present," Harris explained. "And there is good news: Major Sharpe found Mailliot's sister, a Madame Lucille DuBert. He was attacked at her chateau by the very men who did for her brother. She is willing to stand for the major. The captain was most captivated with Madame DuBert; he intended to ask her to marry him... " Harris trailed off when he realised what he had said.

Tom sank to the floor, resting on the damp ground as her friend's words repeated in her mind."

"The captain?" she questioned.

"Frederickson." Harris's face was immobile - she was looking at him, trying to glean his meaning. But, he must be mistaken. It was he who had told her Frederickson had died, and told her so.

"He lives," Harris breathed, gripping her shoulders. "His death was a ruse so he could work to uncover more evidence to support Major Sharpe's innocence." Matt looked pleased with himself, as if he had just brought her a big Christmas present and Tom wasn't as overwhelmed with it as he expected her to be.

"However, Madame DuBert has taken up with the major, his wife having abandoned him."

"But not before Captain Frederickson asked her to marry him? Come on, Matt, tell me the truth," she begged.

"The captain was most aggrieved that Sharpe had come to an arrangement with her."

"He is married," said Tom, pointedly. "And he seduces the woman who his friend has asked to marry?"

She imagined what this Madame DuBert woukd look like, tall, willowy, black hair like her brother.

"But, did she say yes?"

"I don't know...". Matt Harris looked away.

"I loved him, Matthew," she declared, it is something I cannot see or hear or touch, but I felt it, every time he was near."

And then, despite telling herself that morning that she would never cry for the captain again, Tom Wright dissolved into tears in her friend's shoulder.

"But, there's no need for this," soothed Matt Harris. "For his death was a mere diversion in their plan to fight against Ducos." Tom pulled put of his arms, searching his face for the lie.

"Can it be so...?" Through her dishevelled hair and dirty face Matthew Harris saw Tom's eyes fill with hope. "He lives?"

"Yes, nodded Matt, smiling gently at her, then taking her hands. "Captain Frederickson is alive."

88888888

Major Richard Sharpe had just given his testimony on the night of 13th August, how, to whit, he had followed General Lord Wellington's orders, attacked the fort with the South Essex, breached the south and east walls and secured their surrender.

They sat in the Chateau de Garre, a building requisitioned on behalf of the Republic of France and currently, being used as a court in which to hear trials, courts martial and to issue summons and declarations on behalf of the Republic.

From Sharpe, it was a matter-of-fact declaration given, unfortunately, to a man with whom he major had duelled over the honour of his wife. That he was now sitting next to his lover, a part of Tom's mind thought, was ironic.

But Major Sharpe's love life was far from her concern. Major Nairn had visited her, in Sharpe's tent that morning and he had wanted to know from her whether the contents of the letter she had left for Sharpe were accurate, for it had been given to Colonel Bampfylde, and he was questioning Sharpe's integrity.

Tom confirmed that it was - she had written the letter to him as she left. She wished Harris to stay with her in the company of Nairn, but the major had shooed him away, becoming friendly, overly so, touching her arm, touching her hand as he listened, before telling her that it would be passed on to Bampfylde and to the French.

"You will still give evidence, tomorrow, of course?" he asked and Tom had agreed. Which is why she was sitting in the courtroom, Nairn as presiding officer, the French allies to the left, Colonel Bampfylde in the centre and the major now leaving the witness stand.

Tom had nodded politely at the woman standing next to the major, who could not have been anyone else other that Henri Mailliot's sister, and she made a note to find her at the end of all this to offer her condolences.

On the other side of Sharpe was the captain, straight backed and formal, insightful and efficient in his role as defence lawyer and Tom had waves of both intense joy at his being alive, and hurt, at his love for the major's woman.

Other testimonies, were given, and, at the back of the courtroom Tom closed her eyes to listen. Words, more words, confirming the major's testimony; words in French, translated, telling that he was at the fort. Words, and words and words.

And then, as the words were spoken by a woman, soft and smooth, Tom opened her eyes. Lucille DuBert, dark haired, etheral, dark eyed and full lipped. Tom watched Frederickson's face, the first time she had seen him since he had left, watching his gaze drift to Madame DuBert, trying to forgive herself for feeling like she did, and failing.

And then, not even hearing the voice which had called her name, she looked up as the captain of the court stood over her.

"Are you ready, Private?" He asked, stooping down to her level. Tom shook her head, but the answered, "yes, yes." He led her past the chairs on which the witnesses sat, and then towards the stand. Lucille DuBert was standing down. They passed one another, this beautiful creature, and Tom, crop haired, skinny, brown-skinned from the sun.

Madame DuBert smiled a radiant smile at her as she passed Tom. But Tom could not return the smile. Nervousness, she told herself. That must be it. All the same the woman's face had fallen at Tom's sullenness.

"You are quite safe, Private Thomas Wright," began Colonel Bampfylde, as the captain brought forward the bible. "Nothing you can say here will be against your name." Tom put her hand over it, and foreswore to God that her testimony would be true and accurate.

She then stared at Bampfylde. He held up the paper that she had left for Major Sharpe.

"Did you write this?"

"Yes," Tom replied. And thus began her testimony and, true to her oath, Tom told them everything, from the false redcoats attack, the Cataunyans, how the camp had been attacked and she had fought back, and followed them to the fort, and then on to Ducos' camp.

"And we are to believe that you did this alone?" Tom nodded.

"Yes, Colonel. For Major Sharpe had gone with the regiments to carry out his orders."

"Without you?"

"Without me."

"And why was this?" Tom felt herself pink.

"With respect, Colonel," Tom asked, carefully, "I was called to answer questions with regards to Major Sharpe."

"Damn your suppositions, you wretch!" exploded Bamfylde, his face reddening, "why were you left behind?"

"It is because of her skill that I left her, Colonel Bampfylde," interjected Sharpe, scraping his chair back and getting up. "I knew Wright, here, would protect the women; we were to be gone only a day. And, I was right, was I not, sir?"

Tom felt her cheeks grow warm as Sharpe sat down. He was smiling - several others were too. But Bamfylde was not.

"No further questions," declared Captain Frederickson, avoiding Tom's eye. Bampfylde made to argue, but then a note was passed to him from Major Nairn.

"For your bravery," the colonel read, resentfully, then screwed it up and threw it onto the floor.

"Sit down, Bampfylde," declared Nairn, the older man pushing the odious colonel into his seat by the shoulder. Then to Tom he smiled and said, "General Wellington has asked me to convey to you that you are to receive a promotion, Private Wright, to Lance Corporal, effective immediately. All paperwork and back pay owed to from the night of 13th will be dealt with forthwith."

He then turned to Sharpe, as Colonel Bampfylde glowered.

"It only remains for me to say, Major Sharpe, that this hearing finds you clear of all charges." Applause from the floor filled Tom's ears, as she watched Sharpe embrace the sister of Henri Mailliot.

Only when the courtroom began to clear did Tom give in to look at Frederickson's face, and immediately wished she hadn't. She made to stand out of the witness box but a sharp, cutting voice made her turn. The colonel was staring at her in disgust.

"Just before we leave," he snarled, "I have one question, Lance-Corporal Wright. Yes, please sit down," he snarled to the people who were in the process of leaving. Many sank back into their seats automatically. Some just stared from where they stood.

"Wright is not under trial here," Tom heard Frederickson say. But Bampfylde ignored him.

"Lucky, the major declares you to be."

'Yes, lucky," Sharpe repeated, loudly, the penny dropping as to why Bampfylde was so interested. "Never had a serious injury since six year ago in Oporto, and she - "

Tom felt her head sag as Sharpe listed her successes, if they were to be called that. She picked it back up again, forcing herself to stare at Bampfylde as Sharpe finished, "the army is lucky to have her."

"Yes, yes," said Colonel Bampfylde, in an a way a cat might talk to a mouse just before she eats it. "That's what I thought you said: her."

"Indeed, sir," Tom realised she was saying, "one could say I am a her. But really, I am a soldier; I have been in the army since I was thirteen."

"Since you were 13?" mocked Bampfylde, a slow, smile creeping onto his lips. "And you are a girl?"

"No, sir. I promised my mother I never would be a girl." Then, before he could accuse her of being a whore, Tom added. "my father gave me the best start."

Sharpe stared at her, as much as to tell her to stop. But it was too late: she had said too much.

"What are you, Private Wright? Who are you?"

"Lance-Corporal Wright," she corrected him, and this was greeted with a snort from Bampfylde and low laughter from the disparate groups of people who had not yet left. "The daughter of a Brigadier, enlisted into the 52nd under John Colborne at Oporto, distinguished conduct at Talavera, passed to Captain Frederickson - " this time she refused herself to look at the man she loved, "- at Oranto, as a rifleman, then at Vitoria, Zargosa and Lleida at the fort."

Out of the stunned silence, Bampfylde suddenly regained his mind and continued to push her.

"Your father was a brigadier?"

"Brigadier Sir John -

"No!" declared Sharpe, quickly. But it was not quickly enough.

\- Haycock."

Silence. Stunned silence. Tom saw Sharpe look down and shake his head. But shev did not care. After this, she could not remain in the army. The truth might as we be known.

"Your father is John Haycock?" Bampfylde asked.

"Indeed," agreed Tom. "He left my mother and I destitue when he went to America."

"And, you fought alongside with British soldiers - some of which had been in the Americas - did they know this?" Bampfylde sneered - he seemed to be enjoying himself.

"With respect, Colonel - Major Nairn...!" Sharpe appealed, but Bampfylde waved a hand. "This is very serious; I think we need to know everything."

"They did not, until very recently - " she put her hand to her neck. But Sharpe was now striding over to the colonel.

"Look, she is not on trial - " he insisted. "Major Nairn - " he began to protest, to the major. Bampfylde interrupted with another snort.

"There will be an enquiry into this," the colonel began but was silent when a gasp filled the room.

"No, there won't," said Arthur Wellsley, striding over from his position by the door. It was clear that he had been there for a good deal of time. "It is a pity, Bampfylde, that you are not as diligent in your fight against the enemy. Were that I had more soldiers with the dedication of Lance-Corporal Wright, here."

General Wellington then swung his head to look at Tom, extending a hand. "Walk with me, my dear," he said. "Hogan says you are an absolute delight."

8888888

Wellesley had taken Tom for a walk around the chateau where the sun shone onto the cypress leaves, filling them with a glorious green hue. He walked gently, almost lightly, quite unlike how Tom had imagined the general to be. He spoke lightly too, sometimes his voice drifted around him, like a zephyr carried on a breeze. Tom had to concentrate to catch all he said.

He asked her about her life in the army, difficulties she had had, and why it was she had acted in the way that she had. She had offered back her uniform to the army general but Wellesley shooed it to away, shaking his head.

"You've earned this," he said, shaking his head, "it is yours, Lance-Corporal." And then his voice lowered again, almost to a whisper and he stopped walking. Tom waited for him to speak, and when he did, she frowned in the effort of hearing him.

"Do not, Tom Wright, consider enlisting in my army again." Roberta nodded. She would be up on charges were she to disobey a commanding officer.

"Yes, sir," Tom agreed. "I will never enlist in the British Army again. And then, as they proceeded down an avenue of orange trees, continued, "I hope that there will be no repercussions for Major Sharpe, sir, nor Captain Feederickson?Once they found out, the major arranged that I would be with the camp followers?"

"Fortunate, then, that he did, or there might have been quite a massacre," Wellington chuckled, quietly.

"And Ducos? And the gold?"

"It has been recovered, Major Sharpe and Captain Frederickson saw to that." The general turned his head, lis eyes lighting on her neck, which Tom had tried - and failed - to cover with new-grown strands of hair.

"I know what happened to you; I heard too that you handled the outcome of this justly, wisely, and with dignity." Tom tipped her head a little, as the memories of that terrible night flooded her mind.

"If it hadn't been for the captain, sir - he is a magnificent commander; he inspires loyalty and the trust of his riflemen."

"Indeed, Captain Frederickson has been a valuable asset to the army."

"Has been?" Tom felt her face grow cold. Why would he no longer be in the army now?

"He is retiring. Returning to his father's home town in Westphalia, to practise law." Tom felt her heart lurch. Of course she knew by leaving to go to Anerica she would never see William Frederickson again, but now that situation was all too real, and it hurt in her chest, and in her stomach that this was how it was going to be.

"So, as your father is gone, I confide that I have a responsibility for you. Find you someone to marry, eh? Major Hogan finds you captivating. As for Nairn..."

"I will never marry," interrupted Tom, definitely, feeling her face frown.

"Never is a long time. What will you do?  
I intend to go to America or Canada, my Lord, there is always mercenrary work."

"You like being a soldier?" A spark was in his eye. Was it amusement?

"Yes, my Lord."

"Of course, if you had been a man, I would keep you in the army."

"You promoted me, my Lord," she reminded him.

"Indeed." Wellington stopped walking again, this time withdrawing a bag of money from his pocket.

"For you. From the grateful Republic of France. For your service," he added, giving her the heavy cloth bag. "Indeed, I remain hopeful that you will find a man to marry and not continue soldiering. Use this as a dowry."

Tom looked at the money. Whatever was in it promised that the good people of France were very grateful indeed. Tom held out his hand back to the general.

"I cannot take this," she said. "There must be over a hundred pieces of gold. Besides, I was just doing my duty."

"France would be most affronted should you refuse. They are our allies, now."

Tom looked at the bag again. This represented more money than she had ever had in her life, ten times as much. Had she remained in Oxfordshire, she doubted that she would ever have had as much as this in her lifetime.

"In any case, I doubt this peace will last. Between you and I," he added. "Until Bonaparte is dead, he will try to find a way to return."

"Then I am glad that you are our general, sir," Tom replied. Wellington laughed a light "Ha!" as he looked at her, his dark eyes glimmering at the top of his large nose.

"Now, will you return to England? Take your retirement with grace and with fortitude?" He folded her hands around the money. But Tom looked up at him, earnestly.

"Eventually. I have to be Tom Wright, sir. Haycock is a cursed name. While I remember, while others remember, that he was good, and kind, the man I knew is not the memory the name "John Haycock" inspires. I must, I must finish my business with my father, and to do that I must be Thomas Wright for some time longer."

Wellington said nothing for a time, instead continued to stride towards the front of the chateau, in which the hearing had taken place. Beyond it, the rifles were camped, the white canvases shimmering like pearls in the midday sunshine. Ahead of them a group of people stood.

Tom scanned ahead, looking at them. Major Hogan was there, talking to Nairn and Wellington's chief of the household cavalry, Lynch, and his wife, and Colonels Muir and Dalkieth.

Not Sharpe, nor the lovely Madame DuBert. But, next to Munroe, the captain of the 60th rifles. Tom glanced across to Wellington, wondering if he could hear the sudden loud drumming that her heart had taken up. They walked in silence to the merry band, waiting as they were for General Wellington and Lance-Corporal Wright to finish their stroll.

"And now, Roberta," Wellington turned to her, just out of their ear-shot, "may I thank you for your loyalty, for your tenacity and courage. Were that I had a hundred Thomas Wrights, I could not only defeat the emperor, but any threat that Britain may receive to her sovereignty." He stooped to kiss her cheek, then whispered by her ear, "had you been a boy, I have no hesitation in believing you wpuld have exceeded your father's rank. And, there is no doubt in my mind: you would never betray your country."

Those were the words, given by General Wellington to her as she sadly stepped away from her career, that held fast on Tom's heart for a long time, words which would comfort her and embolden her in the few months that were to come.

Now, they were approaching the officers waiting for them and the captain was the first to step forward, saluting the general and then turning to Tom to thank her, on Sharpe's behalf.

And then, as if a spell had been cast upon her, Wellington spoke to the captain.

"I return to you one of your own, Captain Frederickson. She may stay and execute her duties under your guidance until the break of camp tomorrow. There," he added, looking at Tom, "does that suit, Lance, Corporal Wright?"

"Thank you, sir," Tom replied, and saluted.

Wellington snorted a laugh, then, returning the salute, turned and marching back to the chateau.

"You are to come back with us," repeated Frederickson, as Tom walked next to him along the stony path that led back to the camp.

"Yes. The general instructs it. And I would fain disobey the order of a general." Frederickson frowned, and looked disapprovingly at her again. They walked together in silence for a time, as birds sang and the crackle of early summer infused the air.

That was it, then? He was going to be like that? Tom chanced a look at the captain's face: it was impassive.

Harden your heart, Tom told herself. Do not feel. She focused her attention now on vessels bound for the former colonies. She would be able to get her life together as a mercenary, and live comfortably with France's reward to her.

As the camp neared, Frederickson suddenly stopped, turning to her.

"May I say, Roberta," her captain began, "you have been an asset to this army, you are the sharpest, most agile of my riflemen. Hm, yes," he finished abruptly, holding aside an arch of tree, overgrown in their path. The smell of cooking pervaded the air. For the first time in many days Tom felt hungry and they continued walking to the boundary. Then, suddenly, it was Tom's turn to stop.

"I am sorry that my father did this to you," she said, not able to keep it to herself any longer, and she found herself reaching up, tenderly to his face, her fingers touching lightly to his skin. He did not object: indeed, Frederickson stood still and allowed her.

"When I thought you were dead, and I could never tell you I was sorry..." her voice trailed away as she saw his expression, fixed and rigid, and then suddenly pulled her hand away. He disliked her; she couldn't blame him. After all, she was, ultimately, the product of her father.

"It is a mere battle wound," he replied, standing to his fullest height. Then, holding out a hand, added, "Roberta Haycock, I wish you good luck in the future." She took it, shaking it firmly, thinking in her head the words, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I am who I am."

Then Lance-Corporal Wright strode over to the women, resuming the women's duties she had promised Major Sharpe she would do.

If ever existed a goddess of fates, it was she, then, who directed Tom Wright to look over her shoulder on her way towards Ramona and see the stiff-backed captain return to the officer's tent, and have her decide to steel her mind to her feelings.

It was the same fay who, as Tom strode purposefully to the washing duty that saw her chestnut hair glowing in the afternoon sun, telling him that he must forget her, despite the ghost of her touch on his cheek.

Richard Sharpe was drinking rum outside the officers' tent and, on seeing Frederickson, took a swig and proffered the bottle to him. The captain took it, swigging too.

"How do you feel about going home, William?" asked Sharpe, picking up his already clean bayonet, replacing it in his hands with his rifle, and then laying both of them down.

Frederickson stopped drinking and smiled at his friend's words. He bent his knees and sat down on the warm, French soil, taking a handful and allowing it to run through his fingers.

"I shall be glad," Frederickson said. "I leave tonight. I intend to set up a law firm back in Dortmund. Rich widows will seek me out for settlement with their wills. A handsome premium."

They lapsed to silence, the reciprocal conversation unspoken. Sharpe knew that William knew he would be living with Lucille and would make his way as a farmer. But he said, "Back to Normandy. I have a lot to do at the farm. Back to - "

"Madame DuBert." Frederickson spoke her name, loud and clear, as if exorcising a spirit.

"And what about Thomas Wright?" He had seen his friend escort her back from the chateau and the look he had given to her as they parted.

"Roberta?" William lifted his head and Sharpe could see his broken face alive at her name. But confusion overrode this.

"She cried for you," Sharpe added. "Harris told me. When we went to Paris and I returned without you. You were reported dead, as part of the plan. For three days and nights she was inconsolable. Even Matt couldn't pacify her.

"She is too young for me, Richard," Frederickson sighed, looking at the floor, Sharpe's bayonet, his rifle, his own knees. "She is nineteen. I am nearly fifty. She is better off with your Harris."

"Look at me," insisted Sharpe. Frederickson raised his head. "She is like a sister to Harris, and he a brother to her. We have been her refuge. She avoided whoring back in Oxford, and now her name is known to be the offspring of that butcher."

Sharpe noticed that Frederickson's gaze had drifted to the camp of his privates and his lips had curled into a smile.

How many women do you want? That had been what Sweet William had savagely demanded of him when he had discovered that he and Lucille had taken up together, not even a month after Sharpe's wedding to Jane, who had stolen every penny of his money. He had also cursed Sharpe, hoping she would break his heart.

"She will inevitably fall to that if she returns to England. It is a wretched life." Frederickson jerked his head violently towards him.

"Good God, no!" he exclaimed loudly, but he didn't seem to notice or care that Privates Anson and Paget looked in their direction at the sound of their captain's voice. "Heavens, no," he added, at a lower amplitude. He turned to look at Sharpe, his eyes almost imploring. "I want her near me, goodness, yes. She is as close to perfection to me as St. Peter's Basilica. As magnificent as the Dom in Köln."

Sharpe said nothing else, for there was nothing more to be said. He picked back up his rifle and continued to shine it again.

88888888

Oxfordshire. What a wretchedly beautiful county. Roberta had remarked that, as a naive child to her mother as they travelled with the last of Caroline Haycock's money by stage from Dorset.

"You can't eat the scenery," had been her mother's laconic reply.

So she wouldn't be going back there. The army would disband tomorrow and the rifles would pack up, wish one another well and go on to whatever the future lay in store for them.

For Thomas Wright - the name Haycock would be her death warrant, as it had nearly been so here a few days ago - the future laid a ship in store, one which would sail west and would need new colonists. After all, she mused darkly, her father had betrayed his country for its freedom.

They were allowed to keep their uniforms, their clothes, bed rolls and mess tins. Their rifles were the property of the British Army. Tom handed hers in to the 95th's sergeant, Sergeant Harper, who was in charge of the inventory. Neither he, nor his wife, Ramona, looked particularly happy. Perhaps the part-nomadic lifestyle of soldiery and camp following suited them. Tom could understand that.

Some of the 95th's men were leaving that afternoon, making for Marseilles, where Royal Navy ships often docked, to claim their pasage back for Britain. Rifleman Cooper was one of them. He sought Tom out to say goodbye.

"That might have been my shot that day the Spanish flew for our help," he said, "or it mightn't've. You played well, Wright, so you did."

"I think it would have been yours," said Tom, magnanimously. "It was a draw."

"A draw," agreed Cooper, holding out a long, thin hand. Tom took it, shaking it well. "Harris'll be along shortly. He is inventorying the canvasses. Major Sharpe here, and Captain Frederickson will wait until Wellington sends a train, and all our kit gets sent back to Blighty."

"And your plan, Mr. Cooper?" asked Tom.

"My brother is gamekeeper at a big house called Blenheim. Reckon he can fix me up with something. You?"

"America," said Tom, uneasily. But Cooper just laughed. "They'll welcome you with open arms," he said, grinning widely. "You could have any pick of jobs there."

Many of the 60th had gone, they had strode off towards the narrowing trail that led to low, wide mountains and would eventually get them to the Mediterranean that morning. Others would follow. But Tom would go north, to find a ship, any ship, that would take her to America. But it was no longer a vague, mercenary job that interested her.

No, Tom mused. Her mind had crystallised into the one thought that was occupying the peripherals of her mind of late. One task, and then she would be free.

As Cooper bid her farewell a blush came to her cheeks as Matthew Harris looked at her, smiling when she noticed him. The last time they had spoken he had watched her dissolve to tears when he told her Frederickson had gone with Sharpe and had not come back, and light up with joy when he told her he was alive. He came over to her, arm around shoulders.

"Did you think about my offer?" Matt asked, quietly. "Marines want riflemen and aboard a ship. You can read, and write." Tom smiled. It was kind of Harris. He was like an older brother, calm, learned, dependable.

What he was proposing was that when he would enlist she could feign be his wife to secure board - he had talked of this before - but that meant she would be dependent on him for everything. Tom was used to making her own way, and she it would be far too difficult to keep up her disguise aboard a ship to join him as equals. Plus, how would it be fair on either of them?

"It is kind of you, Matthew," Tom began. But my mind, my heart, they are settled on America." Harris nodded slowly.

"Many opportunities there. Better, to my mind, that it had stayed British. There now," he added, taking her hand as Tom fought a jolt of tears.

"If you can, write to me," said Tom. "I will be spending my first few weeks in New York. Post gets to the mailing office with sometimes only a name. Claimants pay if they recognise their writing."

"I'll write," agreed Harris. "I am spending the night in the privates' tent. You?"

To be honest, Tom had not considered where she would be tonight. The Harpers wete packed amd were to be on their way that tonight. Her lean-to shelter was gobe. Tomorrow, she knew, she would be walking north, to Bordeaux. It would take several days.

"Come. Stay with us. There will be no impropriety. Just me, Schmidt, Bagot and Tehidy. I'll take care of you," he added.

"Alright," agreed Tom. But, in the event, though she had rolled out her bedding next to Harris', getting into it as she listened to the carousing getting more and more out of hand, she felt both cheered and melancholic at the same time.

As Bagot passed out next to Tehidy, the last of the carousers, Tom pulled herself upwards as the moon shone a path from the tent entrance out along the scrubland grass. The sadness was even keener now, and it wasn't altogether to do with parting from her fellow riflemen.

She got up, and began a slow pace around the campsite. It seemed strange to see so little there. What had once been the French countryside, with peasants farming it, then became a battlefield, the most terrible battle of modern times. And now, once packed tomorrow, and the baggage trains loaded, it would, given a few months, look as if no-one had been there again.

The moonlight caught on the roofs of two tents that belonged to the Captain and the Major. Both good men, both astute soldiers of vast experience. Both, once tomorrow's work was done, would be heading out to new lives.

She loved him, Tom knew. Every fibre of her being for as long as her memory could recall, had been of him. His humour, rifle-fast and just as deadly. His humanity and care for his men. His loyalty to his friend, even now, who betrayed him in love.

If Captain William Frederickson loved that woman, Lucille, half as much as Tom loved him then he too would be sleepless, brooding, insomnaical, his good nature and sense of fairness keeping his friendship with Major Sharpe, who had stepped in and seduced the woman while the captain was on a mission in Paris in order to help clear Major Sharpe's name. Had it been her, Tom thought, to her shame, it us unlikely that she would have been so loyal.

The air was cold. A tinge of frost played in the night as if to remind one that, though summer had been glorious, it wasn't to last. Tom breathed, the cool air refreshing her lungs, and wondered if the air in America would be like this.

She sat on a tuft of grass, head on bent knees, eyes closed as she thought. America. The one thing her mother did say about the country was that it was huge. It took three months to travel from Newfoundland by land down to Florida, on bumpy horses or bumpy stage. How long it might take from the great city of New York to the east coast was anyone's guess. A country to get lost in. A country where she could truly be herself. For once it had been done, her mission to herself, Lance-Corporal Thomas Wright, rifleman, would be at liberty.

She picked up her head when she felt someone drop onto the tuffet next to her. Slowly, Tom moved her head. Her gasp must have been loud enough for Captain Frederickson to register, for he turned round sharply.

"How fares one of the last of my privates?" he asked, genially.

"Well, sir," was all that Tom could manage. It was strange to see him without his horse-hair wig, eyepatch and teeth. Sharpe said he eschewed then to make himself look more terrifying. But to Tom, he looked better, somehow, more of the man she thought that he must have been. She realised she was staring, and looked away. Silence hung between them, until Frederickson spoke again.

"Your plans?"

"America," Tom breathed, eyeing Frederickson warily. But the captain chuckled.

"Yes, well," he said. "I have had enough of that blesséd contienent to last me a lifetime. I left too much of myself there last time. Tom raised up her head and looked at the man's profile, his missing eye, his deformed jaw, his hair that would never grow again. Her father had done that, allowed those three companies to be ambushed and blown to smithereens.

But she was not her father. Wellington himself had acknowledged this fact.

"And yours, sir?"

"Back to Dortmund," he replied, shifting his feet. "Law, that's the ticket. I am too old now to remain on the battlefield. Why take the difficult route when an easier path can be trod?"

"Yes, sir," nodded Tom, her heart leaden. The awkward silence returned again and was not made much better when her captain turned his head to speak to her again.

"I didn't care, Tom, when Major Sharpe discovered the evidence that you were not a boy," he went on. "You have shown all the skill, tenacity, quickness, and stamina of a boy. You deserved your place in the 60th."

Would he go now? She hoped so. She didn't believe she could bear the platitudes much longer.

"Thank you, sir. That is indeed praise."

"It is nothing of the sort!" Frederickson snapped. "Were that I'd have had a dozen of you..."

"Well, sir - " began Tom, intending to refute his claim.

"Dammit, can you not accept my praise, child?" he bit back, his words short and clipped. Tom, with practised restraint, despite her racing heart fixed her expression and said nothing, as she had promised herself she would, and the shame of being a disappointnemt was crushed to dust.

"You saved my life, girl," he added, in a softer tone.

"And you in turn saved mine, sir. You helped Major Sharpe, and Major Sharpe uncovered a plot to steal the French treasury." When Frederickson said nothing, Tom added, "Will you miss the lady, sir?"

He turned his head deftly, about to issue a rebuke when instead he stretched out his legs and said, "Yes. I will indeed miss her."

Tom thought back to the day in the courtroom, when the verdict from the French had Sharpe as innocent. He had been marvellous, logical, formal. Unequivocal. And that beautiful woman that he loved standing three feet away.

"Thank you, sir, for your command," Tom said, her heart quickening as she stood up. She needed to be alone, anywhere away from him. But then, her mind burst forth the question it was longing to ask, while at the same time trying to keep it from surfacing. The question drowned. From the tussock Frederickson watched her begin to walk away.

"Thank you for being under it, Thomas Wright."

And then, whether it was the captain's warm salutation, or the feeling that her life was changing from the solid familiarity of soldiery into one in an unknown country, Tom did not know, but she stopped and turned, then walked back to Frederickson, who was still sitting and was now looking down past his knees to the dusty ochre earth at his feet.

"May I ask, sir," she began. Slowly, Frederickson raised his head, a look of resignation on his face, which looked out of place with his irremedial smile.

"Madame DuBert..." At the name, Tom watched William Frederickson's face move from one of disconsolation, to surprise, through to wistfulness.

"Ah, Lucille," he breathed. "Beautiful, handsome woman..."

"You loved her then?" She couldn't help it. The words escaped her lips faster than her brain could stop them. She gasped and put her hands over her mouth at her own impertinence. But if the captain noticed, or cared, he did not chide her. He didn't even seem to have noticed.

"No," he said, a faraway look on his face, "I never did love her. I was going to ask her to marry me, as it would have been a union to suit both of our needs, she a widow, I with my own land." It was only then that he seemed to notice that Tom was standing there and had something to do with his recollection.

"You look surprised," he added, then qualified, "sometimes, marriage has nothing to do with love, and everything to do with common interest, goals, companionship."

Silence followed this. It was Tom's turn to look at the ground. She understood that. Frederickson's shoulder dropped and he returned to looking at the earth.

"America," he mused, shaking his head in quiet disbelief. "I believed you would be going with Matthew Harris to sea. Or back to Oxfordshire." But Tom shook her head.

"There is nothing but ghosts in England. But in America, everything is new and talent is needed."

She turned to go again, the pain her chest gripping her heart suddenly, like a vice, and she gasped, as she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Miss Haycock," began William Frederickson. Roberta turned round, as if in a dream.

And then she told him that she loved him, told him how, when he had been gone, and she thought him dead, it felt like the world had ended, and there was no point at all in doing anything ever again.

"I am glad you are alive," she finished, lamely. Then, not knowing what to do next, Roberta just stood there. Frederickson lowered his arm, his mangled features fixed as he looked on her face as the cloud over the moon moved, revealed its silvery glow.

Then, he bent over her, wrapping his arms around Roberta's body, pulling her towards him. The kiss was long and all-consuming, and when they broke off after what felt like an hour, he held tight onto her as if she were a piece of down that might drift off in the air currents, given half a chance.

For some reason, Roberta felt her eyes moist next to Frederickson's chest.

"Oh, my dear!" Frederickson exclaimed, prising her from him, and looked penitent. But Roberta shook her head, wiping away the moisture with the heel of her hand. She shook her head, smiling.

"No! It was not..." she looked between him, and then at her boots. "No..." she sniffed, "...because tomorrow we must part. You will be heading north. I will be - "

"Come with me," broke in Frederickson, "to Dortmund. The French have departed; it is time I established my father's estate once more." This time, through her waning tears, Roberta laughed.

"I know nothing about your country, sir," she replied, "I don't know your language. Besides, what will I do? I know nothing about landholding, neither the law."

Roberta could see the spark of hope and joy that had just graced his face fold inwards, and guilt flooded over her as it was clear he had misunderstood her.

"I see," he said, bowing his head and stepping to one side, clearing a path for her to walk past him unimpeded as he looked from right to left, uncomfortably. "I see."

"No! Sir!" Roberta said, stumbling over the words. "I meant...I only, if I was on my own, in a foreign country, with no soldiery, no form of income - "

"You cried for me," he stated, suddenly, musing over the words. Roberta stopped, and listened. "When you thought I'd died, you were inconsolable." It was not a question; it was as if the man was trying to understand something extraordinary by repeating words that his friend had voiced to him.

Shocked, Roberta said nothing, just nodded her head, a fresh waterfall of tears finding channels on her cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands.

"Hiy, hiy," he said softly, approaching her and taking a wrist in each hand, moving them around him and kissing the top of her head. "I never did envisage you alone." He then drew her close again, this time his embrace pacifying. Roberta, despite her brain at odds with her actions, pressed her head to his chest. She could feel his heart beating through his green jacket as he stroked her back.

"Be my wife, Roberta Haycock," he whispered, into her hair. "For I love you too, dear, sweet girl, I love you too." 


	10. The End of a Hundred Days

10.  
Major Richard Sharpe, late commander of the joint 95th King's Own, the chosen men, watched the canvas of the tent of the Captain of the 60th rifles move aside. William Frederickson adjusted his eyepatch, though had eschewed his wig, his eyeline on the group of tents at the far of the encampment.

Sharpe ambled over, leaning against the tent frame, watching where he was watching.

"She is going to America," Frederickson said, watching as the remainder of his privates finished the tedious task of de-camping, packing up cloth, pole, wood and twine, all headed back to London, all to be stored til it was needed again, all too soon, in Sharpe's experience.

"Aye."

"She has some business there."

But, while Sharpe might have expected sorrow, melancholy on the man's face - though how would he tell with his so many displaced bones - he felt sure it he saw hope there, contentment. And when the soldier Tom Wright appeared, shouldering her load, there was no doubt. Sharpe realised that the captain had noticed he was looking at him.

"She's coming to Dortmund, when the business is completed. I asked her to marry me last night, Richard."

"Aye? Did she accept?" Sharpe turned his head, in interest.

"She said she would give me her answer when she returns."

Dear Sweet William. Had that usually astute, matter-of-fact captain, lawyer in training deceived himself? She may never come to Prussia. He had been jilted once before. Sharpe remembered their flight over French countryside to extracate themselves from the accusation of the theft of Buonaparte's gold. And, of course, there had been Lucille.

However, thought Sharpe, as he shifted between feet, he was almost certain that it had been Tom Wright he had seen leaving Frederickson's tent just before dawn. Perhaps his friend had every reason for confidence.

"And you are happy she accompany me, then, on her way to Le Havre?"

"Of course. Why not? We are at peace. It is 1814 and the war against Buonaparte is won." He leaned towards his friend, and added, sotto voce, "You have your woman. I thank you for it." And then, Frederickson smiled, a real smile before striding out towards Roberta Haycock.

88888888

Three letters arrived at a farm in the north of France. Major Sharpe scanned the envelope, looking for any clues of the sender.

Lucille, her near-term stomach pressing into his back, leaned over and stroked Sharpe's forearms.

"Ha, it's from Frederickson!" he laughed, flapping out the carefully folded leaf. "He has his father's estate in order and, as predicted, is working with widows of the wars to claim what is due to them. The French have deserted the Rhineland."

Lucille leaned over to him and kissed his cheek.

"Does he say of Roberta?" Sharpe scanned the letter, and shook his head. "Only that he is awaiting her return."

"Do you believe that she will?" Sharpe eased her gently into his lap and smiled.

"I don't know. When he was here, and intended to ask you to marry him, it was reported he was killed. She was ruined by the news, had her belongings packed, refused to listen to reason, not even from Matt Harris, and was set to go."

"To America?"

"Aye. Mebbe. She kept sure quiet about her reasons for going, even when she boarded the frigate. British, mind. They have business of their own, in the South. Got to keep the cotton coming. She did ask me a good deal about him, mind."

"Then, I think that she has him in her mind." She reached up and kissed his neck. Sharpe smiled, and kissed her lips in return.

"What do the other letters say?"

"Dunno. Let's see." He leaned her forwards and reached for the second. The second, with the handsome seal of Horseguards, was torn open. Sharpe unfolded the rich, heavy paper. He read it, then read it again.

"Recall," he spat, crumpling up the paper.

"Recall?"

"Aye. Back to the army."

"But two months ago Napoleon was exiled."

"Aye, well. I'm not going. I'm a farmer now. They've had enough of me to last a lifetime." He shuffled over and siezed the other.

"Pat," he said, looking at the third. Ramona and he had settled in Andalucia, close to where Ramona came from. He could never go back to Ireland, he said, not with a Spanish wife. In Sharop's opinion, as long as she prayed the same as the Irish population they would welcome her with open arms to aid in the fight to expel the antichrist Protestants.

He was re-enlisting, and wanted to know if Richard was too.

"Bugger," he said, crumpling the paper. 


End file.
